Under My Watchful Eye
by VintageVillain
Summary: *Season 3 spoilers* Last time Jim underestimated the importance of Molly Hooper. Sherlock knows he won't make the same mistake again.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue.

"Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"

The repetitive nature of the voice over the broadcast made Molly look up from her work. She normally kept the television on while she was doing small, menial tasks. Not to actually watch it, but as a calming background white noise.

"Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"

Before she even looked at the screen, Molly was familiar with the voice. Even though it was electronically distorted. There was only one person she could think of who would say something like that. Who would ask such a self indulgent question. Only one person who could strike the type of terror that she was feeling right now.

Molly knew who it was before her eyes had even confirmed it. But that was impossible.

"Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"

Finally, Molly looked to the television screen. It was impossible, yet there he was. Jim Moriatry. Jim from IT.

She took two steps closer to the television set, not sure why she had done so and what being closer would achieve. She had over without thinking. Molly stared at him as he continued to repeat.

"Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"

So many questions were buzzing though her mind, colliding and exploding in a rain of confusion. How was he back? What was he doing? How did he survive? What was his plan? And, as always, the most important thing in her mind, this time, as many other times, formed as a question: Sherlock?

Sherlock had sent her a text earlier that morning. A brief message. To say he was going away for a while. Molly didn't know why he had told her, he had never told her when he had left before. It had been a few weeks since they had even spoken. Both of the. Probably still hurting from the incident on the lab when Molly had slapped him. Thrice.

But he had felt the need to tall her he was going away for a while. No other explanation other then that, and a sign off of 'Goodbye, Molly Hooper'

And now Jim was back.

She wasn't naive enough to think there was a reason behind him saying goodbye to her. But the alignment of the text and the reappearance of Jim made her realise that things were much more dire then she had first thought.

Sherlock was gone, and Jim was back.

Or Sherlock was gone because Jim was back.

Molly took a step forward again and sank to her knees in front of the television.

Questions still bubbling inside of her, warring with emotions dragged to the surface. Molly didn't understand anything that was going on, internally or externally.

Without further thought, Molly removed her phone from her pocket. She didn't know what she expected to be there. A text from Sherlock? Or a text from Jim? Neither.

They had all thought the case of Moriarty was over. They had assumed with the consulting criminal's suicide there would be no more to explore on the matter. They all assumed that Sherlock had won.

The battle maybe, us obviously not the war.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed chapter one. I was overwhelmed by the response. Thank you all so much. I hope that I live unto the expectations you have for this chapter.

Chapter Two

Sherlock's plane landed just as quickly as it had taken off. Still standing on the tarmac were John and Mary, along with Mycroft. Mycroft didn't seem happy with this new arrangement. He thought that he had managed to solve his sensitive problem, to exile his brother and keep him out of prison. But now, he had no choice but to bring Sherlock back.

There was only one person in the world that Moriarty would want now. And that was Sherlock Holmes.

The hatch of the aircraft opened and Sherlock deplaned. He made his way quickly down the steps, across the tarmac and straight to the sleek black car that had brought him to the airport to begin with.

"Find Lestrade" he barked, the turned to the Watsons. "You two, get in the car. Locate Mrs Hudson and send someone to pick up Molly"

Mycroft hesitated. Sherlock shot him a withering look.

"Do it now Mycroft! The protection of these people is the only thing that will make me take this case."

Mycroft scoffed "Brother dear, I just returned you from exile and likely death" John and Mary both gasped, softly as not to interrupt the fragile situation unfolding between the brothers. John had sensed that he would never see his friend again, but to hear the fact acknowledged was a completely different story.

"And yet" Sherlock smirked. "Here I am. You need me, brother dear." He looked suddenly to John and Mary "Why aren't you two in the car?"

"Oh, right" Mary said quickly as she made to climb into the backseat, John following her closely.

Sherlock looked over the car door at his brother. "Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and Molly. At Baker Street within an hour"

Mycroft nodded, knowing, but not willing to admit out loud that his little brother had him at a stalemate. He had to do as he was told if he wanted any assistance in this new, delicate, Moriarty related situation that had arisen. Sherlock then climbed into the car.

"What does this mean Sherlock?" John asked as soon as his friend was in the vehicle.

Sherlock stared out the window for a few seconds before replying "I don't know, but everything we thought we knew has been called into question. The east wind"

"I was there"Sherlock began as the car began to move forward. "I saw Jim Moriarty, I saw him pull that trigger and I saw him blow his brains out of the back of his head. Yet here he is."

He then slipped into his mind palace, remaining quiet and contemplative on his return to his beloved Baker Street.

0o0

Greg Lestrade's mobile vibrated in his hand as he was in the process of dialling in a number. He looked at the caller ID, seeing a name that was frequent on his phone. More so in the last few months then it had been ever before.

He hit the button and held the phone to his ear. "What's going on?"

He knew he shouldn't have snapped. His own fear had taken over in the situation. The caller would probably not have the answers that he searched for, yet if anyone had even the slightest of clues, Mycroft Holmes would.

"I don't know Gregory" Mycroft replied in a hollow and somewhat defeated voice. "Sherlock's on it"

Greg paused. Sherlock was on it. Somehow those words provided him comfort. He nodded to himself, still holding the phone to his ear. "What about Sherlock's exile?"

"Postponed" Greg could hear the disappointment in Mycroft's voice and couldn't help the smirk that broke his face. "I need of to come to Baker Street. My brother has summoned you."

Greg nodded, paying his bar tab as he continued to press the phone to his ear. But it seemed the conversation was over, because all he could hear was the dial tone.

0o0

Molly was still on the floor, legs tucked beneath her, staring at the television that now played an endless stream of news updates. Every network had apologised for the unexplained interruption and ensured they were getting to the bottom of the unusual proceedings. Some channels, who had obviously recognised the man who had bombarded their broadcasts, had started stories of not only Moriarty, but of his unusual working relationship with Sherlock. Most were speculating, speaking with absolutely no authority about what the interruption had meant.

Molly wasn't listening to the station, however. She was staring brokenly at the figures on the television, but taking nothing in. Only one thought was prominent in her brain. Jim Moriarty was alive.

There was a sudden and unexpected knock on the door, ripping Molly from her staring. She turned and looked over her shoulder, standing and searching for something to use as a weapon. She was on edge.

On the other side of the door were two suited men, looking official and important. Molly hesitated. Who were these people and what did they want?

It was best to be wary of strangers until all this was sorted out. The last time she had been completely trusting of a stranger, her boyfriend, Jim from IT, had tried to kill Sherlock and John. Since then it had been Molly's policy to stay cautious until someone had proven themselves trustworthy. Usually most people did prove themselves to be honest and trustworthy, but the caution had saved Molly the occasional heartache.

So as she was faced by the two strangers at the door, Molly held a glass beaker behind her back, ready to strike if these two men were actually in the employ of Jim.

"Dr Hooper?" One of the men began. "We work for Mycroft Holmes."

She relaxed, but not entirely. Her interactions with the older Holmes had been few and far between, and not entirely comfortable. Mycroft had even kidnapped her once, asking her personal and invasive questions about her friendship and feelings for Sherlock, to say that he rubbed her up the wrong way was an understatement.

"Mr Holmes has asked you go to Baker Street at once" the second man said. "We are here to take you to him"

Molly was confused. Why would Mycroft want to see her at his brother's flat? It made no sense, but then again, nothing made sense today.

"Mr Holmes, the junior" the first man clarified, and Molly relaxed. If anyone could make sense of this crazy day, it was Sherlock. "You won't need anything, please hurry along. Time is of the essence."

0o0

Mrs Hudson was shocked when the door burst open and a multitude of bodies entered the flat, making their way up to Sherlock's apartment. She named them all in her mind as they passed. Lestrade. Mycroft. Sherlock. The Watsons. All disappearing up the stairs.

"Come along Mrs Hudson" Sherlock's voice snapped. She followed the orders and made her way up the stairs.

Martha stood in the door way, watching Sherlock pace, his mind otherwise occupied. This must of had something to do with the strange broadcast she had seen earlier that day. There was a weird anticipation in the room, and Martha didn't know what it was that they were waiting for.

Mycroft had sat in John's chair, his umbrella leaning against it. Greg stood to the side, looking lost and confused by the general inaction in the room. The Watsons sat huddled together on the couch. Mrs Hudson just stayed put. Waiting.

The question of who they were waiting for was answered minutes later by the arrival of Molly with two of Mycroft's men. Sherlock had looked up, pleased that all were now gathered, and ready to continue on.

"Hi" Molly greeted calmly, looking at her collection of friends. "Umm... What's going on?"

This seemed to be the question that everyone had. What was going on?

Sherlock still didn't say anything. Mycroft cleared his throat, a gesture to hurry his brother along. Sherlock glared at him.

"I am sorry Sherlock, but I am under the impression that we need to get this situation sorted out as soon as possible. We need to apprehend the criminal. Return London to a sense of normality."

Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand "I personally saw Moriarty shoot himself. Which poses us with numerous questions. Did he survive? And if he did, how? That's the first question. I need the answer to that first. Did he survive? The how is not so important, but a mere personal interest. Secondly, it is of course possible that he pre-recorded this before he died. That raises the question of why now? Why wait almost three years?"

No one said anything, for no one had the answers. The fact that Sherlock seemed clueless had most of them on edge. John hadn't wanted to say anything before, but instances of Sherlock not knowing, of his judgement being clouded were more frequent. Sherlock Holmes was still the smartest man John knew, but hearing 'I don't know' from him was an uncomfortable shock.

"The first thing I want done" Sherlock began, turning to his brother, his hands clasped behind his back. "Is the assured safety of my friends."

Mycroft stood from the chair to stand toe to toe with his brother. "Need I remind you Sherlock, that mere hours ago you were a murderer being sent into exile"

It seemed no one had told Molly this fact, she gasped, then but her lip when it attracted the attention of others. Sherlock ignored her, as he often did.

Mycroft continued speaking. "What makes you think you have any right to make demands?"

"Clearly you cancelled my banishment because you realised the gravity of the situation. You never would have landed the plane if you could have handled this alone. That must be killing you!" He grinned, stepping away from his brother's intimidation techniques. "So the question is now, will you be protecting the ones I care about, or shall I get back on the plane?"

Mycroft sighed "These are the people, I assume?"

"Yes" Sherlock nodded. "Greg can look after himself. I don't know how sometimes considering his obvious ineptitude. But he is grown man, with the forces of Scotland Yard behind him. And..." Sherlock smiled, looking from his brother to Greg and then back again. "I believe he is a much loved pet these days. A goldfish, perhaps"

"Sherlock" Mycroft warned. Sherlock smiled.

"He can look after himself, but I would require he have a little extra attention. I'll leave that in your capable hands Mycroft."

Sherlock turned to John and Mary. "Again, these two can look after themselves. However, with Mary pregnant, they shouldn't have to. Not saying John wouldn't be able to handle it, but I want them both protected. I vowed that I would be there, that I would protect them, that nothing bad would ever happen..."

"Sherlock, you don't need to hold by that vow" John interrupted, standing and crossing to Sherlock. He lowered his voice and lent into his friend "last time you did, you murdered someone."

"And I'd do it again" Sherlock replied before leaning even closer. "What's wrong with me killing for you, when you did the same for me. Or don't you remember the taxi driver?"

Thankfully, no one else heard the exchange. John shifted his weight from one foot to the other then loudly said "What did you have in mind for our protection then?"

Sherlock smiled. "Stay as you are, check in with me as appropriate. I feel that I won't be able to stop John from helping me on this case. Is that right doctor?" John nodded, and Mary nodded also, knowing her husband and his need for action. "I am sure some sort of additional protection could be put in place to ensure you are never struck unawares"

"As for Mrs Hudson, I believe she is safest at Baker Street. But I need you to promise you will approach everything with caution. Avoid leaving your flat unless it is necessary, don't have visitors with, follow my directions for your safety to the letter. Can you do that?"

She seemed like she was going to protest, then nodded, resigned that it was all for her own safety.

"And Doctor Hooper" Sherlock crossed to her. This was the closest they had been since the incident in the morgue. He held her in an intense gaze, so intense that she had to look away from him. "I would like you to move into Baker Street"

Everyone in the room let out an audible gasp.

"It makes sense" Sherlock began, speaking to all in the room as opposed to speaking directly to Molly. "You are least likely to be able to look after yourself. You are too trusting and without the strength to stand against some on like Jim."

"Well when you put it that way" Molly began, watching as Sherlock seemed pleased with himself. "I decline"

Sherlock was shocked. "You decline?"

"I am not as useless as you think I am you know" She said defensively, standing straight to physically embody her words. "I am a grown woman. A strong woman who helped you fake your death, need I remind you. A woman who dumped Jim Moriarty. A woman who smacked you silly a few weeks back"

John chuckled then covered it with a cough when Sherlock looked at him.

"It's a new game. The rules are different this time. You won't be able to defend yourself" Sherlock replied. He knew he was not being very persuasive, but the words were escaping him. He didn't know how to phrase what he really wanted to say to her, what he feared more than anything else: that something could happen to her if she was alone. All he wanted to do was protect her.

"Everyone else is being trusted to look after themselves" Molly argued, trying not to sound like a stroppy child. Was that really how Sherlock saw her? As a weak woman with no ability to look out for herself? After all she had done for him?

"Mrs Hudson isn't" Sherlock replied. He could feel his control slipping away from him. He was fighting a losing battle, and he knew it. Molly was a stubborn woman, and that was one of the qualities that he hated about her. He would often get his own way with the others. They would bend to his will quite often. But Molly... She used to be so easy to manipulate. A soft spoken word or a kind gesture would get him anything he wanted from her. But now, this strong willed woman would never bend to his needs. She would argue with him, reply with sarcastic statements when needed, and backhand him to the face when she felt he deserved it.

"Yes, but she is not being asked to leave her house" Molly replied, evenly and coolly. She was standing her ground on this, nothing he could say was going to make her change her mind. She could look after herself, and this was the perfect opportunity to prove it. "I can look after myself, put guards on my house if you want to, but I can look after myself!"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, looking down at her. He had run out of articulate reasons so merely said "No you can't"

"Watch me!"

0o0

Even on the stairs outside of her apartment, Molly sensed something was wrong.

She hoped the uneasy feeling in her stomach was because of the fight she had just had with Sherlock. Often after their interactions she felt clouded and out of sorts and today had been no different. Their stubborn sides had warred today at Baker street resulting in her turning and leaving with no goodbyes to anyone, getting the first available cab back to her house. As shaken as she had been by the whole conversation with the consulting detective she couldn't shake the feeling that it was deeper than that.

Closing and locking the door behind her, Molly turned on all the lights in the living room, calling out to Toby as she did so. Toby usually ran to her as soon as he heard the door open. "Toby? Tobes? Where are you?"

Molly flicked on the lights in every room as she entered it. For some reason, she felt safer with the lights on. As much as she believed what she had told Sherlock, that she was a strong, independent woman who could look after herself, it would take a little time to get used to this new version of reality. A reality where the danger of Moriarty was again prominent.

"Toby?" She called again as she got the box of dry cat food from its spot below the sink, shaking it so that the cat could hear his dinner. "Toby? Where is that cat?"

Toby enjoyed hiding, so it was possible he was curled up sleeping somewhere, more than likely in her room.

She pushed the door open with her foot, shaking the box between her hands. "Where are you, handsome Toby?"

What greeted her in her room ripped a scream from her lungs. Her bed was ruined with a pile of fur and blood that had once been her beloved friend Toby.

A/N 2: I am so so so sorry! Poor Toby! I hope you'll all forgive me for that.


	3. Chapter 3

Hello everyone! Thank you all very much for the continued support on this story. I am enjoying writing it very much. I am trying to slowly unfold the Sherlolly aspect, but don't you worry, it's on it's way.

0o0

Molly dropped her overnight bag at the foot of the bed in the room that had once been John's seconds before throwing herself on its surface. She pushed her face into the soft pillow, so hard she almost couldn't breathe.

From the haunting message on the television to the discovery of Toby, today had been the longest day of her life. All Molly wanted to do was sleep, but her mind wouldn't hush.

Ten minutes earlier, Sherlock had answered the door of 221b with a smirk. Seeing her standing on his doorstep with her overnight bag had been expected, however Sherlock had been surprised at how quickly Molly had changed her mind. The pathologist had left in a storm of bravado, but he knew deep down that she would have realised the truth eventually and have no choice but to come running back metaphorical tail between her legs.

Sherlock was half way through a rousing 'I told you so' when Molly had burst into tears. Crying women were not his forte, not in the slightest, but Sherlock found himself stopping mid sentence and collecting the devastated woman in his arms, patting her on the back awkwardly. It was what his mother enjoyed when she was upset, and the one time he had tried it on a stressed and disheveled Mary it had eased her. It took longer with Molly, but she calmed eventually.

"They killed Toby" she whispered sadly. Sherlock recognised the name, but took a while to connect the name to Molly's feline companion. "It's him isn't it? Jim? I mean, who else would break into my house and..."

Molly had dissolved into tears again. Sherlock deposited her on the couch before crossing to his collections of case files on the desk. In the forty-five minutes between Molly leaving and returning again, Sherlock had retrieved everything he had collected about Moriarty with the intention of identifying patterns.

Molly had regained her composure and dismissed herself to John's room. Sherlock didn't even notice.

And now she lay on John's old bed, trying to ignore the events of the day. It hadn't been easy returning to Baker Street, but she knew that at a fundamental level, Sherlock had been right. The game had changed, and while she was sure she could look out for herself, being close to Sherlock was in her best interest. At least for a few days. Once sherlock knew exactly what was going on, she would be able to put strategies in place to look after herself. She needed Sherlock's knowledge to protect her.

He had hugged her. That was the second time he had held her to his body, but the first time that he had started it. The first time the pair had hugged had been the day of the fall. Sherlock had thanked her for all of her work and planning. And she had thrown herself into Sherlock's arms without thinking. He had awkwardly returned the hug that day too.

While today's hug had been tense and unsure, Molly could not deny the comfort she felt in it. Confusion was the winning emotion in her mind these days, but in the 30 seconds of that hug, downstairs in the living room, she had felt clarity for the first time in a long while.

The door opened suddenly, and Molly made to roll over and give Sherlock a piece of her mind in relation to invasions of primacy. She stopped, however, when she saw him struggling with balancing a tray in his arms. Tea and a few biscuits were on it.

He placed them on the bedside table silently, looked at her awkwardly, then turned to leave the room again.

"Thank you Sherlock." Molly said to his retreating back.

His only response was to pick up her house keys from the small table by the door.

0o0

"He killed her cat?"

"Someone did." Sherlock replied as he took the stairs outside of Molly's house. John tried to keep up, but his legs were shorter than the Consulting detectives. "We have no proof that it was Moriarty, yet."

"But why her cat?" John asked, trying to hide that he was slightly out of breath as he caught up.

"Jim Moriarty underestimated the importance of Molly last time. He used her to get to me and when he realised that she had no control or power, he dismissed her, never to think of her again. That was his first and biggest mistake, as Molly ended up being a major player in the whole fall, as you now know." He opened the door before him and entered, John following close behind. "He's not going to be fooled twice."

"Yes, but why her cat?"

"Because its..." Sherlock paused, realisation dawning on his face. "Because her cat is her pressure point."

Sherlock ignored John as he tried to voice his confusion, pulling his phone from his pocket and dialling his brother.

"What did you say to him!" Sherlock barked as soon as Mycroft answered.

"Hello Sherlock" Mycroft began, "To what do I owe the rudeness?"

"What did you tell him? Moriarty. When you had him in custody. You've admitted that you exchanged information with him. Told him things about me? What did you tell him?"

Mycroft paused. He still regretted the incident his brother referred to. It had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, to gain intelligence from an enemy, but the harm it had caused was still causing injury.

"Things about you." Mycroft said softly.

"Be specific." Sherlock ordered. "Leave nothing out."

Mycroft took a deep breath. "Where we grew up. Where we went to school. Your strengths and weaknesses in terms of school subjects. Your favourite foods. Where we spent summers as a child. Mother and father's occupations."

"Did you tell him about Redbeard?" Sherlock asked suddenly. Mycroft paused, trying to recall the conversation for years before.

"He asked about childhood pets, so yes, I told him about Redbeard and Winston." He admitted.

"Of course!" Sherlock sighed, everything clicking into place. "That explains how he knew."

John interrupted "Knew what Sherlock?"

"Magnussen" Sherlock began, explaining to both John and his brother who was still listening intently on the phone. "Magnussen knew about Redbeard, my dog who I hadn't thought of in years. After Redbeard had been put down I had forbidden anyone from mentioning him, it hurt too much. Yet he knew"

"Could he have researched that?" John asked. He knew what sherlock was implying, but felt the need to play devil's advocate.

"How? Old vet records. Seems a bit obsessive." Sherlock stated plainly. "No, he got the information from Moriarty. They were working together."

"Possibly." Mycroft began. "Easiest way to find out would be to ask him. But oh wait, I can't do that, can I Sherlock?"

"Oh like you've never killed anyone before" Sherlock sighed. Mycroft cleared his throat guiltily and John smirked. "Dig up all you can on a connection between Magnussen and Moriarty, I fear that link is deeper then just discussion of Captain Redbeard."

Sherlock hung up, glaring at a chuckling John. " 'Captain' Redbeard?"

"Shut up." Sherlock muttered, making his way to Molly's bedroom.

"Was this during your pirate phase?" The chuckle turned to a laugh.

"I said shut up" he snapped again, then turned back to John "How did you know about the pirate thing?"

"Mycroft may have mentioned it." John admitted finally.

"I am going to kill him." Sherlock muttered, continuing toward's Molly's room. "Just consider yourself lucky John, you got to turn your childhood obsession into a successful and rewarding military career. There are no job openings for pirates."

"Don't be like that," John smiled "I am sure ten year old Sherlock would be pleased with the amazing consulting detective career you've developed."

Sherlock's grin at the statement fell rapidly from his face as he looked around Molly's room. Her usually pristine white room was blotched with pink and red bloodstains from the gruesome murder that had taken place.

John released a breath. "Molly discovered this? Poor thing."

Everyone knew how much Molly loved Toby. Sometimes she had spoken of him as though he was a child. John had been concerned that the young pathologist would turn into a crazy cat lady or the longest time, at least until she had met Tom. For Molly to come home to the scene that lay before him would have been heartbreaking.

"Search for clues" was all Sherlock said, "Anything that could prove that it was Moriarty who did this."

They searched her room for quite some time, but there was nothing that would link the crime to the criminal. When John, who had been searching the small bathroom off of her bedroom reentered the space, he was shocked to see Sherlock wrapping the remains of Toby carefully in the ruined blanket.

0o0

Molly wasn't sure when she had fallen asleep, but awoke to the sound of someone moving around in the kitchen downstairs. Checking her phone, she saw that it was actually quite late in the evening. She contemplated just rolling over and returning to sleep, but a grumbling in her stomach stopped her. All she had eaten since lunch had been the few biscuits that Sherlock had provided her with hours before.

Pausing at the door of the kitchen, she saw sherlock bent over his microscope. John had warned her that the kitchen was often turned into a lab, but her scientific mind had no problem with that.

"Stop staring, it's distracting" Sherlock said, not even looking up from his microscope. It was the same tone he used many times at the lab, so the sharpness of his voice did not alarm her. She also didn't feel the need to apologise, merely crossing to the fridge and opening it.

"John got Chinese" Sherlock informed her. "Enough for you. More than enough, as I haven't touched my share."

Molly took the plastic containers out and inspected them briefly before retrieving a plate. On a whim, she also took a second plate down.

"We found no evidence of Moriarty at your place" Sherlock began. He had realised that she was preparing two plates, but did not say anything. "But I assure you we'll get to the bottom of it."

Molly nodded as she heated the first plate in the microwave. "What are you working on?"

Sherlock hesitated, unsure of how to phrase it. He justified to himself that she was a scientific mind and would understand. "I took a sample of Toby's blood. I am testing it to see if there were any abnormalities."

Molly gasped softly but nodded. It was a logical step to do so, but the admittance that the testing was happening in the kitchen was a shock. "Anything yet?"

"I believe Toby was poisoned first." Sherlock began. "I found a concentration of poison that would have been fatal to a cat the size of Toby... Which means he was more then likely dead before he was ripped..."

Sherlock had gone silent. Molly realised that for possibly the first time in the history of them knowing each other, he was trying to spare her feelings.

"That's a slight comfort" Molly said carefully. "He died before..."

Now she was silent, unable to continue. The microwave beeped and she removed the plate and placed it beside Sherlock. He thanked her quickly.

"There's something else" Sherlock rushed, reaching for a box that was on the floor. Molly eyed it suspiciously as he placed it on the table. The detective was not forthcoming with the information, so Molly reached for the heavy cardboard lid. Sherlock stopped her. "It's Toby."

Molly sobbed, a tear rolling down her cheek. Toby was in that box. Sherlock had put her cat in a box and brought him home. She stared at the box, unmoving for the longest of times. Why had sherlock done this? Was it to hurt her? To torture her? Was he going to do tests and experiments on the poor body? She didn't understand. The microwaved beeped but Molly ignored it. She wouldn't be able to eat knowing what was in the box on the table.

"Why?" She choked out eventually, tears still running silently down her cheeks.

"Mrs Hudson has a small garden in her courtyard." He began, standing and placing a hand gently on hers. "I thought that maybe Toby deserved a proper burial."

Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks, but this time they were not for Toby, but for the touching gesture Sherlock had just suggested.


	4. Chapter 4

Hi all! Again, thank you so much for the support you are showing this little story. This chapter was fun to write, for no real reason other than it was good to try and get inside the heads of my two favourite characters. I hope that I have done them justice. They discuss Sherlock's drug use and have a cat funeral in this chapter, so if that is sensitive for anyone, consider yourself warned.

0o0

The burial of Toby was to be a quick affair. Molly stood, holding the box as Sherlock dug a deep hole in the tiny garden space in Mrs Hudson's courtyard. When the grave reached Sherlock's specifications, he stood, wiping his hands on his trousers before taking the box from her. He paused before lowering the small cardboard coffin into the hole in the ground.

"Is it customary to say something?" Sherlock asked. Molly couldn't help but smile at the thought of Sherlock giving a eulogy for Toby. He had a way with words, that was true, but often, especially in the realm of sentiment, Sherlock had a habit of running his mouth off. His unusual yet moving speech at John and Mary's wedding was proof of that.

"We don't need to." Molly said quickly, crouching beside the grave and picking up a handful of the soil that Sherlock had disturbed in his digging. She threw it onto the lid of the box with a sniffle.

"He was a fine cat." Sherlock said tensely, hoping that it was an appropriate thing to say. Molly looked up at him.

"He was." she agreed, standing straighter once again and dusting her hands by rubbing them together. Molly paused, then added "Toby hated you though"

"I knew it!" Sherlock grinned. he had always had a theory that Toby had disliked him. Each time he had visited Molly the cat would hiss and scratch at him. Molly would always dismiss it as Toby knowing he was more of a dog person. "He always attacked me as soon as I would enter your flat. Crazy fluff ball."

"Well if you hadn't made a habit of breaking into the place unexpected." Molly dismissed. During Sherlock's absences, when he would come back to London and seek solitude within her home, Molly would often be alerted to his presence by Toby's shrieks and Sherlock's cursing.

"He had a set of claws on him, that's for sure." Sherlock laughed. He heard small sniffle from Molly and his heart dropped. He had little experience with funerals, but he was sure that laughter was not commonplace. "I am sorry. I shouldn't be laughing."

"It's ok." she replied, dabbing her eye with the back other hand. "He brought me such joy, it's good to remember the happy stuff."

"Happy," Sherlock snapped lightly. "The scar on my ankle doesn't remember them as happy times."

"Oh, you big baby." Molly grinned, remembering the time Sherlock had acted as though Toby had taken his leg off, when in reality, the small cat's claws had barely scraped him. Sherlock still claimed that there was a scar on his left ankle from the brutal attack. "It's hardly a scar."

Sherlock took the small shovel in his hands again and began gently covering up the box. Molly stood silently, saying her last private goodbyes to her beautiful Toby. The cat had been a constant companion to her over the years and he would be missed greatly.

"Thank you for this Sherlock," Molly began, searching her mind for the words to adequately express what the gratitude she felt. "It's very kind of you to..."

"And it was kind of you to help me fake my death, to allow me to use your house occasionally in my time away, to keep my secret, to look after John while I was gone" he used the shovel to pat down the loose soil, then picked up one of Mrs Hudson's potted plants, placing it on top of the grave. "You have shown me nothing but kindness for the whole life of our friendship, at times when I have been far from deserving. If this is a kindness in your eyes, then you are a far better woman then anyone gives you credit for."

Molly was moved almost to tears again. She stared at Sherlock, searching for the right thing to say. She was rendered speechless. None of her vast vocabulary was helping her, so she fell back to the safest thing she could think of "Cuppa' tea then?"

"Dying for one!" Sherlock replied. They climbed the stairs to 221b silently, moving directly to the kitchen where Molly busied herself with putting the kettle on and finding the rest of the biscuits.

"Who spoke at my funeral?" Sherlock asked suddenly. Molly almost dropped the biscuits in shock. They had never spoken about his fake funeral, both preferring to pretend the whole event hadn't happened. The question had been burning Sherlock since he had begun to dig Toby's small grave, however. It was one of Sherlock's biggest regrets that it had not been safe for him to attend his own funeral.

"Greg did." she replied. "John tried, but couldn't make it though. Greg took over."

"You didn't say anything?" Sherlock asked.

"I didn't trust myself not to reveal that you were still alive." Molly admitted, preparing the two mugs of tea when the kettle whistled. "John asked me to speak, but Mycroft decided that it was in everyone's best interest to skip my eulogy."

"Dictating my funeral. He's a control freak!" Sherlock laughed, accepting the mug when Molly offered it. He had tried to lighten the mood but Molly had turned sad and contemplative again.

"Your funeral was one of the hardest days of my life" Molly said quietly, her eyes not lifting from the mug in her hands. "Second only to my father's funeral, of course."

"Why? You knew I was alive." Sherlock was confused "That should have been some comfort to you."

"I knew." Molly agreed, finally meeting his eyes "But John didn't. And Greg and Martha didnt either. Holding onto that secret, watching them cry, it was heartbreaking Sherlock."

Sherlock felt instantly guilty. He had honestly never considered the weight he had asked her to carry all those years. He had gone to her for assistance because he trusted her with his life (and death). Molly had risen to the challenge of helping him, but he had never even considered what the weeks, months and years after the jump had been like for her.

"I am sorry Molly."

"I know you are Sherlock" she replied softly, it was not her intention to make him feel bad about the situation, but it was something that she had been holding close to her chest for the last few years. If she couldn't speak her mind to Sherlock now, after everything they had said and done together, then she never would be able to. "It was all necessary to protect them."

"Protect you too" Sherlock added. "I did it to protect everyone."

She patted his hand reassuringly. "And the fact that I could help you do that is the most important thing I have ever been apart of, Sherlock. But standing there, watching them mourn for you, even though I knew it wasn't real was a bizarre form of torture."

They were silent for a few minutes, sipping at their tea and picking at the biscuits.

"There was no other option..."

"Don't justify it to me again Sherlock. I understand. I've always understood." Molly sighed. "And I'd do it again. Maybe not the lying and the watching everyone cry part, but I'll help you to the very end."

"I thought you were angry at me" Sherlock began, bringing his hand to his cheek as though it still stung from her slapping Molly blushed a little. That had been the only time she had ever struck anyone. Something within her had just snapped, and while it had felt good at the time, she couldn't help but feel guilty about it now.

"I was" Molly began quietly. "Or still am. Everything I said then I mean with 100% of myself. You are back on drugs. Squandering that amazing brain of yours, throwing away the sobriety you worked so hard for. Damn right I was angry!"

Sherlock was suddenly fascinated with the tabletop before him. There were only two people in the world who had the power to make him feel bad about his previous drug habits. Many had tried, but the only two people to ever get through to him had been his father, and Molly Hooper.

"Do you remember the first time we met Sherlock?" Molly began, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. "The very first time?"

"St. Bart's Cafeteria" he said at once. It was one thing he had never deleted from the mind palace, the day he had met Molly. He had no idea why he considered the memory valuable, but it still lived on in the recesses of his mind. "Lestrade introduced us when I first started working with the Yard"

Molly shook her head. "That was the second time. It's ok if you don't remember the first time. I guess it's worthy of deletion"

Sherlock wracked his brain, he was sure that the first time he had met Molly had been in the cafeteria when Lestrade introduced him as the consulting detective. Was it possible that they had met before? "When then?"

"I met you an hour after I finished the autopsy of Jacob Noble" Molly began, waiting to see if the name registered in Sherlock's mind. From the look in his eyes, she could tell that he recalled who Noble was. "Twenty two years old. I had just confirmed that he had died of a drug overdose, but under suspicious circumstances. I called Greg, and in he came... with you"

Sherlock remembered the night, but it was all quite hazy. Greg had dragged him into the morgue by force and thrown him abruptly at the corpse of Jacob Noble, who was still laid out on the autopsy table. Greg had barked his interrogation at Sherlock. He had obviously been a suspect. Sherlock strained to remember more details about that night, but the memory was fuzzy around the edges. He had been high that night, the drugs dampening his senses. All he remembered was the corpse, Lestrade and... A third person. There was definitely someone else there.

"That was you?" Sherlock questioned, and as soon as he asked his question out loud, the image of that third person in the room became clearer. Dr Molly Hooper.

Molly nodded. "I stood there, in the corner, and watched as you and Greg had a battle of intelligence" Sherlock smirked, pulling a small, sad giggle from Molly before she continued. "Even then, out of your mind with God knows what drugs, you were the smartest man I had ever seen. I stood there and watched you deduce what had happened to the man on my table."

"Lestrade arrested me for that" Sherlock complained, finishing his tea.

"I would have too. You were a suspect who suddenly knew the ins and outs if the case. I would've thought you were confessing too." Molly smiled sadly. "But you left that night and were back three months later. Clean, in a nice suit, a respectable young detective consulting with Scotland Yard."

That was the memory that Sherlock had. Of meeting the young female pathologist that obviously had an instant attraction to him. That was the memory he had never deleted.

"However briefly Sherlock, I knew you when you were an addict." Molly told him, taking both of their mugs to the sink. "A shadow of the exceptional man you are now. So yes, I was, am, angry at you. The man I slapped in the lab was not you Sherlock. It was the old you, with your old attitude and your old habits."

Molly went to move out of the kitchen and leave the room. She was exhausted from the words and actions of the day. Any refreshment from her earlier nap had been agressively ripped from her. Sherlock's voice cut through the relative quiet of Baker Street, stopping her. "I am clean again. I was never addicted again."

"Addiction is not something you cure. You know that. Once an addict, always an addict." Molly argued, ready to continue her escape, but Sherlock was on his feet and in front of her immediately, blocking her path to her room.

"I only did it twice" he began. He had an amazing need to explain himself to her. "Enough to make the dealers I was meeting with believe that I was serious. I bought many more hits, but I got rid of them, I swear. It was all an act, for the case"

"And I trust you." Molly sighed. "But a slip is still a slip. It was enough to make you regress back to that man. That mean, terrible man who made me feel like I never counted" She lifted her hand to his cheek, stroking it gently. "You are the smartest, bravest, most handsome man I've ever known Sherlock Holmes, and as I said, you were throwing that away and hurting your friends again. It was too much"

She stepped back from him, sidestepped and continued to climb the stairs to her new room.

"You think I am handsome" Sherlock asked.

"Oh shut up" she forced a smile through the tears that were welled in her eyes.

"Molly, I am sorry." He looked up at her. "I am sorry for all the pain, intentional and otherwise, my friendship has caused you. And I promise I will try to heal any scars I've left"

"I have no doubts you'll try" Molly agreed. "Goodnight Sherlock"

"Pleasant dreams, Molly"


	5. Chapter 5

Molly snapped the book in her lap shut and sighed. "John always made it seem so much more glamorous than this." She teased lightly. For at least an hours Sherlock had been pacing a track in the carpet of the living room, pausing only occasionally to check his files and case notes. For years, Molly had loved watching Sherlock think and work and process a case, but she had to admit that today the process was a little less then breathtaking.

"He embellishes, romanticises" Sherlock dismissed with a flourish of his hand. "You've worked with me before."

"That was different. We fit a quantity of cases into one day" Molly replied.

"And this one is a case of quantity." The consulting detective stated plainly, his flair for the dramatic taking over. He stepped closer to her position, puffing out his chest as he often did when he felt important. "James Moriarty. Back against all odds, and ready to play our complicated game again!"

"It's like Christmas?" Molly asked, quoting Sherlock back at him. John had told her that he sometimes referred to his more challenging cases as Christmas as a way of showing his happiness.

"Chrustmas? No!" He flopped onto the lounge beside her lazily. "More like my birthday. What you reading?"

"Found it in John's room" she explained, tilting the cover of the book towards Sherlock so that he could see that it was a speculative biography of Jack the Ripper. "Hold on, relevance, shouldn't you be flipping up your coat collar and somehow immediately finding an empty cab?" Sherlock looked at Molly confused. She continued. "Shouldn't you be out on the case? Chasing Jim?"

"He'll come to me." Sherlock dismissed, looking to the clock on the mantlepiece. "In the next hour, I would suggest. Jim made first contact, then disappeared again without a trace. It's unlike him to be so silent. He'll make second contact again today, I am sure of it!"

"And what makes you so sure?" Molly asked.

Sherlock picked up the television remote and the old set in the corner flicked on. He flipped through the television channels, every one of them showing updates on the reappearance of the mad man. "Everyone is talking about him. They are playing exactly into his hands. He wants everyone to know his name, to remember his story, to associate his name with fear, but if he doesn't strike while the metaphoric iron is hot, people will assume its a hoax."

To prove his point, Sherlock stopped on a news programme that was playing a story about that very possibility. "Could it be a hoax?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It could be. But it is all very elaborate if you ask me."

"Jim was a very elaborate man" Molly reminded. "The lengths he went to to play his games with you Sherlock, the people he was willing to hurt. I wouldn't put it past him to do this."

"I just keep coming back to the fact that I saw him die" Sherlock mumbled, and again the confusion crept back into his voice. "I saw him pull that trigger. He died"

"So did you."

Sherlock grinned, staring at the woman beside him. He loved that over time, she had become someone who could challenge him. "Yes, but I am harder to fool than the general idiotic population."

"No offence taken" Molly mumbled playfully.

"I said general population, Molly" Sherlock turned, shocked at the idea that she could have taken the statement offensively. Did Molly not see that he had meant it as a most sincere compliment? "You are not the general population and definitely not an idiot."

"So what am I?"

"My pathologist." He mumbled, and before Molly had a real chance to determine what that meant, the image on the screen went fuzzy, sharpening again to a picture of Moriarty. Sherlock jumped to his feet. "See!"

Sherlock leapt over the coffee table to directly before the television. He hit a button on the dvd player so that the action was recorded. Molly stood too, coming to stand behind the detective.

The image of Moriarty in the screen laughed mechanically, maniacly, and then paused to stare daggers at the viewers again.

"I am disgraced, impeach'd and baffled here,

Pierced to the soul with slander's venom'd spear,

The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood

Which breathed this poison."

The image paused again, saying one last thing before the screen returned to regular programming. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, that was direct." Sherlock muttered, stopping the recording. "That quote... That quote... "

"Shakespeare." Molly said behind him. He looked over his shoulder at her. Her face was twisted into her thinking face, a face that Sherlock rarely saw outside of her lab. "My father was a lecturer of renaissance literature. I would bet my life that was Shakespeare."

"Do you know what play?" He asked. But Molly was already in motion, slipping to his desk and opening his laptop. Sherlock moved to look over her shoulder.

"What's your password?" Molly asked. Sherlock considered telling her, he trusted her with his life and there was nothing on his computer that would shame him, but in the end his logic won out, and he pulled the laptop out of her hands to type in the code (AhoyThereRedbeard17)

The opened the search engine and typed in the line she remembered. The first search option was a section of text from Shakespeare's Richard II. "I knew it... One of the histories, so not as well known, but he was quoting Shakespeare."

Sherlock went over the lines again and again in his mind. The quote itself was laced with hate and allegation. Moriarty was accusing him if what exactly? The word slander was there, but how did the criminal think Sherlock had wronged him, when the whole situation had been the complete opposite.

He was suddenly aware that Molly was moving, but it wasn't until he heard Moriarty's voice in the room again that he looked up. Molly was re-watching the broadcast, studying it intently.

"Sherlock!" Molly began. "His lips aren't moving"

Sherlock crouched on the floor beside her, his intense scrutiny locked on Moriarty's mouth. Although the words spoken were definitely in Jim's haunting voice, but the consulting criminal's lips were locked in an unmoving smirk. "How is this possible"

Again, Molly's flurry of movement drew his attention. Molly was back at the computer, furiously typing something into a search engine. Soon, the "Did you miss me?" video was playing on the small screen. "His lips don't move in this one either."

Sherlock took the laptop from in front of her and crossed to the tv, playing both messages at the same time. It was exactly the same footage. A smirking, unmoving Jim Moriarty, smirking sickeningly at the audience.

"What do you think this means?"Molly questioned softly, trying not to distract Sherlock from his thought process. Sherlock looked over his shoulder at her.

"The more I consider it." Sherlock began pensively. "The more I believe that we are not dealing with Moriarty himself. The vocal structure seems rigid and completely unlike that of the Jim Moriarty I remember. The footage is repetitious, his lips aren't moving..." He stood suddenly, retrieving his coat from where is hung over the back of a chair. "I need to get to the Yard"

With a swish of his coat, he left the room, the main door to the flat slamming shut. Molly stared after him. It never ceased to amaze her the speed at which Sherlock could operate when the time was right.

Less than a minute later, the stormed back in and stared at her, head cocked to the side, showing his obvious confusion.

"Well hurry up!" He barked playfully, taking her coat from the hook by the door and throwing it towards her. It landed in a heap at her feet. "The cab is waiting!"

Molly jumped to her feet, pulling on the offered coat as she followed him down the stairs.

0o0

Lestrade looked up as two people stepped off the elevator. Sherlock had an excited spring in his step that meant one thing: the game was on. Molly was trying hard to keep up with him, but the stride length distance was taking its toll.

"I need access to an agent who was skills with audio equipment" Sherlock ordered without a greeting. "And the digital Moriarty case files."

Lestrade, used to Sherlock on a case, nodded and gestured to one of the lower officers who stood and followed them to the small interrogation room, setting up the audio equipment Sherlock had requested. "What is this about Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't answer, so Lestrade looked to Molly, who shrugged. Sherlock had been no more forthcoming about his plan with her. Sherlock had the case files open, searching a list of digital recording transcripts. He searched for a pen, circling words occasionally.

"Take this" he said to Molly, handing her another pile of transcripts. "Circle every time you see the words 'did', 'you', 'miss', and 'me'"

Sherlock's theory finally clicking into place, she took the transcripts and pen. Greg did the same. As Sherlock finished his first one, he handed it to the officer. "Cut each of these words from the digital recordings and start playing with the combinations of words into the sentence."

They worked for a few hours, taking it in turns to go out for coffees. At around two in the afternoon, Molly stood, stretched and announced that it was her turn to go down to the canteen. The boys hardly noticed she had left the room, so enraptured in their work.

"That one" Greg stated a few minutes later as the officer played a soundbite of the word 'miss' for the room once again. "That's the 'miss' he used."

"Which transcript?"

"It's from the court transcripts" Lestrade began. Sherlock reached across the desk, snatching the transcript from the detective inspector's hand. "The other words are here too."

They cut the words and placed them in order. An identical match to first televised Moriarty message.

"Moriarty didn't say these words." Sherlock muttered, sitting and folding his hands under his chin. "At least not recently. It's all recordings. Put together to develop a believable vocal forgery."

"So it's a fake?" Lestrade questioned. "Moriarty is dead?"

"We won't know that for sure until we analyse the second recording. The one form this afternoon." Sherlock replied, reaching back to the transcripts to look for the key words of the secondary broadcast. "Track down a copy of it for me, will you?"

When Lestrade didn't move, Sherlock finally paid attention to him. "What second recording?"

"The one from this afternoon, the Shakespeare quote." Sherlock snapped. "Played on the BBC about half an hour before we got here. Don't tell me, detective inspector, that you are so mediocre at your job that you didn't even realise Moriarty had made contact again?"

Lestrade continued to stare at the consulting detective. "Sherlock. There was no second broadcast."

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock began, looking from Lestrade to the other agent that had been helping them and back. "There was a second broadcast. I recorded it on my television at Baker Street."

Lestrade went to argue again, but Sherlock wouldn't have it. He needed to hear the truth from someone outside. He dialled John's number and waited patiently for his friend to answer. "Hey Sherlock!"

"Have you heard from Moriarty today?" Sherlock asked, then realising how weird it sounded, added. "On the tv, I mean."

"No." John replied. "Not since the one yesterday at the airport."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah mate" John confirmed. "And I would know, I've had a lazy day in front of the telly with Mary. Is something going on that I should know about?"

"I dont know." Sherlock sighed. "Thanks."

After hanging up, Sherlock slipped into thought. The second broadcast. Had it been a hallucination? Had he dreamed it? No, that wasn't possible. Molly had seen the footage too.

"Why isn't Molly back yet?"

0o0

Molly liked the cafeteria at Scotland Yard. It had a better variety than the one at Bart's and offered a wider selection of sweets than the hospital did. Every time she ate here, she indulged her sweet tooth. Today she not only had the coffees for the boys she said she would get, but found herself grabbing four chocolate doughnuts too.

The cafeteria was oddly quiet she noted as she made her way past the other foods to the registers. Placing the tray down, she dug in her pockets to find some money (uncomfortable with charging it to Greg's account the way Sherlock often did.)

A hand on her wrist stopped her. A small, terrified scream escaped her lips as she looked into the eyes of a man she believed was dead and gone.

a/n: Hi all. Sorry it took so long to get this chapter out. I am back at work, and as much as writing is a stress reliever for me, the last week was stressful there. (Plus every time I sat down to write this chapter, something else cone out of my brain that have become the basis of other fics) I am going to try and get a chapter out every few days. Thanks for the ongoing support.


	6. Chapter 6

There had been a gunshot. Muffled but distinctive, travelling throughout Scotland Yard with a panic that hit every one of its inhabitants.

Sherlock ran against the crowd, pushing past the throng of London's finest police officers to make his way towards the crime scene. He looked briefly over his shoulder and was happy to see Greg hot on his tail.

The crowds thinned and Greg ran beside him, feet pounding in unison on the floor. Coming to a stop in front of the elevators, Sherlock tried to catch his breath. Doctors had limited the amount of physical activity that he was to do, and the running had caused an uneasy burning in his chest, radiating from his healing wound.

His heart was also burning. The echoed shot had come mere seconds after he realised that Molly was yet to return from the cafeteria. His first, instant thought had been of Molly. Sherlock had promised to look after her, told her that she would be safest with him. They had fought about it, even. He refused to believe that Molly could have been right.

The elevator was taking too long, so Sherlock turned and entered the stair well. They were four floors above their destination and a little more running wasn't going to hurt them. Greg again was with him the whole way, and Sherlock admitted to himself that this was one of the rare times that the Detective Inspector's presence was both wanted and needed.

There were four armed officers at the door of the cafeteria, decked out in bulletproof vests. Sherlock and Greg approached their backs, trying to see around them into the quiet room before them. "What's going on?" Greg asked as they came to a stop (slightly out of breath himself).

"Doing a perimeter check, sir!" One of the officers, obviously one in charge, said. "About to make first entry."

Greg nodded, then felt a presence at his side. Sally Donovan was there, holding out his firearm. It was good to know that his partner would always have his back.

"What's taking so long?" Sherlock growled, anxious at the procedures the others were taking. If it was up to him, he would have stormed in immediately. Some may argue that behaviour is what got him in trouble, but Sherlock wasn't thinking of himself right now. He was thinking of nothing but Molly.

The perimeter check was completed and a few officers entered the cafeteria. Sherlock's worst fears exploded his heart when he heard the words "Send for an ambulance."

The moment the first officers cleared the room, Greg and Sally entered, Sherlock mere inches from their back. The scene before them was unusual. The cafeteria he had frequented many times (usually for John's benefit) was exactly the same as he had last seen it, but the atmosphere was heavy. The usual white notice of patrons was absent, resulting in the constant hum of the fluorescent lights being the only noise in the large room.

"Oh no, Dottie" Sally moaned at his side, drawing the attention of both Sherlock and Greg to the registers. The old, kind lady who worked the cash register lay slumped against the counter in a pool of blood. Sherlock stepped forward to investigate, noticing the gunshot wound on the woman's neck.

"Deceased." He announced, knowing that his deduction was redundant. "Where's Molly?"

Sherlock began moving around the room, expecting to find evidence that the attacker had taken her. Molly was a powerful bargaining chip, especially in a personal attack against him. as he had stated previously, Jim had made the mistake of underestimating her before, but would not do it again. Sherlock was sure that Jim, or his men, had killed Dottie and then taken Molly.

What he found, on the other hand, made him make a noise he never remembered himself making. Face down on the floor, stuck in an attempt to escape, was Doctor Molly Hooper.

He ran to her, kneeling by the woman's side. Blood soaked her simple white blouse, and there was a knife, sticky with her blood, on the floor between them. "Molly!"

"Oh Jesus." Greg muttered before turning back towards the door of the cafeteria. "Where the hell is that ambulance?"

Sherlock brushed her hair to the side and pressed his shaking fingers to her neck. He silently begged to whoever was listening that he would find a sign of life, and when the silent beg did nothing, he let out a louder, more audible one "Please! Molly, please."

"I said I'd look after you" he told her, still trying to steady his hands to get a purchase on the pulse point. "And I didn't lie. Don't you dare make a liar out of me Molly Hooper."

Sally suddenly shoved him aside, and while his first reaction was to tackle her away from his pathologist, he noticed all she was doing was pressing her calm and steady fingers to Molly's throat. She then lowered her head to the other woman's mouth.

"She's hanging in there. Barely" Sally announced. Then she echoed Greg's earlier question of "Where the hell is the ambulance?"

Said ambulance arrived then, bashing their way though the door. They began to work immediately on Molly, but Sherlock pushed his way back to her side, holding her bloodstained hand in his.

"We've got to get her to a hospital" one of the paramedics announced. Sherlock held her hand all the way to Bart's.

0o0

Molly eased herself onto the couch in the living room in Baker Street, propping herself against the cushions awkwardly to relieve the pressure on her wound. Her recovery had been a slow process and after two weeks at St Bart's, Molly had signed her release papers that morning (against her doctors wishes) and returned home.

Her time in the hospital had given her so much to think about and far to much time to actually do said thinking. Her brain was a buzz with her attack, the return of the consulting criminal, the lack of privacy and normalcy that this whole situation had left her in, and above all else, Sherlock Holmes.

He had been the first person she'd seen when she had regained consciousness after the event. According to John, he had barely left her side. Over the first few days of her stay in the hospital, Sherlock had been there through all of her waking hours, and most probably her non-waking ones. Honestly, it had been a comfort, especially when doctors were being abrupt about the severity of her injury and the slight complication of her surgery. As she recovered however, Sherlock's presence became overbearing. Sherlock bored was a handful, Sherlock bored in the limited setting of a hospital was exponentially worse, especially considering Molly was confined to bed rest.

She tried to keep him occupied with questions about cases, playing silly games like deductions and Cluedo with him or discussing the Moriary case, but eventually it became too hard to keep up with his moods.

And boy, did they swing. At first Molly could tell that Sherlock held a lot of guilt over her injury, and she tried to stop him from feeling that way. His heart was set in it, however, and nothing was going to shake him from it. Once the guilt passed, Sherlock became angry, agitated that he seemed to have reached a dead end in the Moriarty case. Then a few days later he became happy, giggling and joking like a schoolboy, or caring and considerate, reading articles to her from her pathology journals in that velvety voice. It was hard to keep up.

It got to the point that she was exhausted. Her recovery from her medical injury was speeding up, making her feel much stronger, but trying to decipher Sherlock was weakening her substantially.

She knew it all came from a very generous place, and surely this was a human side of Sherlock that he was putting forward. It made her angry at herself for categorising it as tiring. She summed it up to just wanting to be at home...at Sherlock's.

When she signed herself out of the hospital, not once did Molly consider going home to her own flat. With everything that had happened, there was still one thing that she was sure of. Sherlock made her feel safe.

Molly shifted on the couch, wincing at the pinch it gave her back. She had been stabbed as she tried to escape. Her fight or flight response had left her with flight (an option John had commended her for), but she obviously had not made it very far.

What she had seen that day in the cafeteria was burnt into her brain. Jim Moriarty and a second, tall, red headed man. Jim had grabbed her wrist. Molly had managed to successfully get away. Jim pursued her, and stabbed her at the same time that his companion shot the nice lady behind the counter. Moriarty threw her to the ground and both attackers left through the back exit she had intended on taking, leaving her to die.

Or, more accurately, leaving her as a message. Molly was sure they intended for Sherlock to find her, as he did. She was also sure that it was not the intention for her to be alive when she was discovered.

That was another thing that Molly was having a hard time wrapping her head around. The road to Sherlock Holmes seemed to be through her. Sherlock had told her that weeks ago, but Molly had never really considered it as truth. She was important to Sherlock Holmes, and that was a dangerous place to be.

Dangerous or not, she wouldn't have it any other way. Because safe or dangerous, tiring or energising, better or worse, she still loved William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

The door to 221b opened with such force that it bounced off of the wall. Sherlock stormed in, noticing her mid-stride. Her appearance did not stop his obvious rage however. "You signed yourself out?"

"I did." She replied calmly.

"You signed yourself out... Without telling me?" Sherlock continued.

"I did" Molly repeated.

"Took a cab?" He asked, sitting on the edge of his chair.

"I did."

He ruffled his hair in frustration before looking across the room at her. "Why?"

Molly knew that often, especially when he was frustrated, simple answers were the best. "I wanted to come home."

Sherlock locked eyes with her across the living room. As angry as he was that she had done something so reckless as to leave the Hospital and travel without his protection, something in him smiled when she referred to Baker Street as home.

Molly reached to her overnight bag that she had laid by her feet, trying not to make a sound as her back pinched again. She lifted the bag and pulled out her medications. Although she was trying to survive as much as possible without painkillers, there came times when it was impossible not to. Suddenly, there was a glass of water in front of her on the table. Sherlock had retrieved it for her.

"You should have told me." Sherlock began, his earlier rage subsiding but not yet evaporated. "Or John or Mary or Gary."

Molly giggled. "Don't do that! You know his name!"

Sherlock shrugged. Of course he (now) knew Greg's name, but it was fun to watch him turn red whenever he was called something different. Sherlock sat on the coffee table so that he could look Molly in the eye. "Is your continued recovery manageable from Baker Street?"

"I am a doctor."

"Who only works with dead people." Sherlock reminded. "And I won't even begin to deduce why you made that decision. I ask you again Molly, is treatment manageable?"

"Yes" Molly said, staring at her hands. "Change bandages and apply antiseptic. Check the stitches. If I don't over do it I'll be fine. I can always call John or Mary or 'Gary' if I need help."

"Or you can ask me." Sherlock said sincerely.

"You've done so much for me already" Molly smiled softly. "Staying with me in the hospital. Keeping me occupied and amused. Finding me on that day..."

Sherlock took her hands in his, making Molly make eye contact with him. "You should know by now what I'd give up for you."

"Of course I know Sherlock."

The moment was like one that cheesy films depicted. Sherlock, his hands still wrapped around hers, began to lean forward in a fashion that only meant one thing. Molly's heart began pounding. This was happening. Finally happening. Doctor Molly Hooper was about to be kissed by Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes.

He continued to lean into her, and Molly knew that she would have to do the same. If she didn't, she would come across as not wanting of the action. That was not at all how she wanted to appear. She leant forward, slightly, angling to ensure their lips found one another when a searing pain hit her, radiating for her lower back.

Molly whimpered and pulled away abruptly. She had leant too far and pulled at her still tender wound. Tears welled in her eyes as she gasped.

"Molly?" Sherlock questioned.

"I am fine." She muttered, running her hand reassuringly over his. "Sorry. I pulled at my stitches."

Sherlock nodded, unsure of what to do next. Molly was still trying to get comfortable on the couch and her little shock of pain had seemed to make kissing the furthest thing from her mind. Time to do what they always seemed to do in times of awkward silence. "Relax. I'll make us a cuppa."

A/n: I didn't want to do the usual "chapter about recovery that is actually set in a hospital" thing. I have done that in one of my other fics and didn't want to feel like I was copying, so I just hope that the pace and descriptions of her recovery looking back were ok. I also didn't want to do a "Molly gets kidnapped" fic, because well, I've done the kidnap thing in a story before too. I am trying not to let this one get too angsty. Hope you enjoyed this one!


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock's gaze was betraying him. He sat at his desk, pouring over case files and shreds of clues, trying desperately to keep his mind, and his eyes, off of the pathologist asleep in his chair.

After dinner, she had turned on the seldom used tele and found a channel playing a marathon of a tv show she claimed was her favourite. Sherlock had watched a few episodes with her before excusing himself, frustrated by the banality of everyday television broadcasting. It was now three hours later, the television was still on the same channel, and Molly was asleep.

He wanted to wake her, knowing that the angle she was twisted into in the chair was possibly painful for her and her stitches, but he couldn't bring himself to do it when she looked so peaceful. So beautiful.

He had watched her sleep a few times when she was in the hospital, the gentle rise and fall of her chest a major beacon of comfort for him. Knowing that she was alive after he had come so close to losing her was life affirming. It wasn't until Mycroft had told him that current social practices would consider him a 'stalker' if he continued his behaviour that he had stopped, concerned about what Molly would think if she woke to find him watching over her.

He stood suddenly, his feet moving without consultation with his mind, and retrieved a throw blanket from John's old chair, draping it lightly over her. She should be comfortable, his mind reasoned, to quench the voice in his mind that was reminding him how nice it felt to be that close to her. All it would take was a small movement of his hands and he would be touching her, but he stopped himself from completing the movement. It would wake her, he reasoned.

Sherlock stayed crouched, balancing his weight in the arm of his chair as he took in her sleeping face. So innocent. Not the woman who chose to work with the dead. Not a woman who cut people's chests open with an electric saw. Not a woman who saved lives by faking deaths. A woman with venerability and anxiety and heart. So much heart. A woman who had been under his nose for five years now but only recently in his field of vision.

Sherlock couldn't pinpoint the moment his feelings for Molly Hooper changed. He assumed it was somewhere around staring at the back of her head when he had dramatically returned to her in the St Bart's locker room. He knew for the first time that he cared deeply for her the day he had kissed her cheek and wished her well with her marriage to Tom. A contagiously stupid man who believed in the existence of daggers made of meat. The day Sherlock realised he wanted to be with Molly was the day he realised he couldn't have her.

Then the ring had been absent during his drug hazed intervention. Molly slapping him had been a sign that she still cared. Even though he had taken forever to realise the window existed, he had been happy that it was open again.

Pursuing Molly, anyone really, was something he had never considered before. His list of previous girlfriends was limited to one (a university fling that began as a blind date set up by his mother. A dalliance that had lasted three months until the day she had told him he was too unusual for words. That had stung, there was no denying it) but was it possible that Molly would accept him for who he truly was?

Only a handful of people had ever accepted him. His parents. His brother. Mrs Hudson. John. And Molly. Even less, he believed, had loved him.

Sherlock didn't know what love was. He assumed he loved his parents, every though he didn't know how to show it. And he was sure that somewhere within him, there was a caring and affection for Mycroft that he would ignore and deny to his dying day. But Molly? He had never wanted to feel normal human emotion until he realised what she meant to him.

Sherlock stood, stretching, his legs jelly from the crouched position he had been sitting in. He backed himself into John's chair, opposite where Molly sat, so he could continue to watch her while she slept.

Finding Molly in the cafeteria that day had been one of the hardest experiences of his life. To see her, devoid of signs of life had been heartbreaking. He had found himself promising that day that if Molly got through this alive, he would admit how he felt.

It seemed so simple, but Sherlock knew he couldn't continue in his romantic journey without the advice of John. John, in many ways was a leader to him, especially in the realm of the social and the romantic. It had only been a handful of hours since she had returned from the hospital, and Sherlock had made sure that he was around her, giving him no time to call his friend. As much as he needed to talk to John, his need to not let Molly out of his sight was stronger.

Sherlock reclined a little, resting his feet on the small coffee table between them, the sound of the television still echoing through the living room. Loud, but not loud enough to block the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

At first Sherlock thought it was John, thankful that he would be able to discuss his most recent moral dilemma with his best friend. But then he listened, truly listened to the soft steps on the stairs, and stood against the unwelcome, but somewhat expected intruder.

"Your pet is settling quite well." Came the voice before its owner entered the living room. Sherlock waited patiently for Jim to reveal himself. Eventually he did, turning the corner, Westwood suit immaculate.

"I don't blame you." Moriarty smiled sickeningly, stepping further into the room and smiling down at Molly's sleeping form. "She is loyal and loving like a dog. Yet independent and flippant like a cat. A true pet indeed. How do you know how to feed her?"

Sherlock's first clenched. Moriarty noticed. "Why Sherlock! That wouldn't be an emotional response I detect would it?"

Still no words from Sherlock as he watched his arch nemesis circulate the space he hadn't inhabited in years. Each time Jim moved closer to Molly he would tense, but relax again when the criminal moved away.

"Definitely a cat" Moriarty smiled suddenly, picking up Sherlock's skull, playing with the jaw bone that still moved slightly. "Our Molly. A cat. Just like that Toby creature."

Sherlock watched as Moriarty laughed, making the skulls jaw move along with his voice. Then, in a sudden movement, Jim threw the skull against the hearth, both men watching as it broke into a few jagged pieces. Sherlock looked to Molly, hoping the noise didn't wake her.

"Ah, I see!" Jim cracked to himself, kicking a piece of the skull into the fireplace itself. "You do have a new pet!"

"Molly is not my pet." Sherlock began.

"Ah, so it's love." He laughed, then changed to a mocking tone. "'She's my equal. My other half. My domestic partner.'"

Sherlock didn't say anything, making Jim grin in realisation.

"She doesn't know? How precious."

"If you do anything else to hurt her!" Sherlock began, stepping forward and trying to keep his voice neutral, knowing emotion would betray him almost as much as action would.

"You'll do what?" Jim asked, staring at himself in the mirror above the fireplace. "You'd be boring and bore the living boringness out of me? Domesticating yourself Sherlock? Excuse me if I question the man you've become."

Sherlock ignored him, moving to the kitchen and preparing tea, the tradition of when he hosted the consulting criminal in his home. Jim followed, stopping Sherlock in his tracks by taking two glasses out of the cabinet and finding a bottle of whiskey that had been left over from when John was a resident. Sherlock thought it better to not question how Jim knew it was there.

Jim poured him a glass of his ex-housemates whiskey. They both sipped at it quietly. "She's an amazing kisser isn't she?"

Sherlock looked over his shoulder to where Molly was still ignorantly asleep. His blood boiled. The whiskey soothed him, but only lightly.

"But that cat of hers" Jim continued. "That annoying, simpering little feline. The cat version of her. Wouldn't even let me get a hand under Molly's jumper without jumping on me. Cheapest form of birth control. I am glad I finally got the chance to get rid of it."

Sherlock tried to ignore the implicit meaning of Jim's words. Ignore the fact that the mad man's disgusting lips had once been on his Molly. Sherlock was smart enough to know that the only reason Jim was telling him this was to get a rise out of him. To bait him the way Mycroft used to when they were kids. Sherlock sipped at his whiskey again.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" Jim asked, grinning.

Sherlock ignored him, placing his glass on the table between them. "What do you want Jim?"

"A visit" he relied, also placing down his glass. "That's all Sherlock. I missed you!"

Sherlock smirked, staring him down in a battle of wits.

"We have a lot to discuss. Catching up to do." Jim grinned. "How you survived. How I survived. What you did while you were away. Your new 'kill to protect your friends' policy'"

"John and Mary Watson are not the only people I would kill for." Sherlock threatened. Jim grinned, looking back to the still sleeping Molly.

"Ah, a threat." Jim grinned. "She's just a pet Sherlock. A cat rubbing against your leg." Jim clapped his hands together, the unsettling grin returning to his face. "But you find that out soon enough. Goodbye Sherlock. I'll keep in touch..."

Moriarty got as far as the door before Sherlock interrupted his retreat. "What will it take to have you promise that you won't harm her?"

"I don't make promises I can't keep Sherlock." he returned flatly before closing the door and making his way down the steps. Sherlock listened as his footsteps became softer on the stairs and the front door of Baker Street was slammed shut with force.

Molly stirred at the far off sound if the front door slamming. A whimpering sound escaped her as she stretched out of her sleeping position. Sherlock was at her side almost immediately.

"I am fine." Molly mumbled, slowly waking up. "Was that the door I heard?"

"Client." Sherlock lied fluidly.

"At this hour?" Molly yawned, looking at the clock that sat on the mantle.

"We get them at all times." Sherlock dismissed, trying to stay level headed and not alarm her. He held out his hand and when she took it, pulled her to her feet.

"The TV is still on." Molly said, looking to where Doctor Who was still playing in the set in the corner.

"I ignored it." Sherlock replied, still holding her hand on his, focusing more on the feel of her skin than the conversation they were having.

"Sherlock" Molly said suddenly, drawing his attention to her eyes. "Are you sure everything is ok?"

"Fine." he replied a little too quickly. "I am a little tired actually."

"Tired? You?" Molly joked. Sherlock smirked.

"My transport often requires adequate resting." he smiled down at her. Molly grinned in return, realising that her hand was still in his.

"You should go to bed then." Molly told him, cursing that she could hear a hint if slight invitation in her voice.

"Maybe I should" Sherlock replied, obviously not noticing. Neither of them moved.

They stood locked in their stalemate for almost a minute before Molly sighed to herself and gently pulled her hand away. "Goodnight Sherlock."

Sherlock watched her pick up a few things from the table and make her way to the stairs before replying. "Goodnight Molly."

Although he was tired, Sherlock did not sleep that night.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock Holmes was behaving strangely.

That statement alone was nothing to be concerned about. Strange was a kind way to describe Sherlock Holmes most days, but for the word to come from a close friend like Molly Hooper, strange had an unusual sense of alarm attached to it.

For the last two days, Sherlock's behaviour had been bordering on obsessive. When she had woken the day after falling asleep in his chair, Sherlock had been sitting on the floor outside her room, squashed into the tiny landing at the top of the stairs. He had dismissed his action immediately when she questioned it, and summing it up to Sherlock's usual unusual self, had gotten on with her day.

A day in which Sherlock had been no more than a meter away from her at all times. Where she moved, he moved. At first Molly had thought it coincidence, so she tested her theory. When she vacated the couch to go to the kitchen, Sherlock stood from his desk and moved to John's chair. When she announced that they were out of milk and going to see if Mrs Hudson had any, Sherlock insisted he go too.

Molly had hoped it was just one day, some sort of weird experiment he was toying with, but when she awoke that morning and it was all continuing, she sighed in frustration and just tried to get on with her day. It was difficult. Her consulting detective shadow wasn't getting in the way, per se, but his ever present ... well, presence was starting to get on her nerves.

"You've got to be kidding me!" she mumbled as she exited the bathroom (at least he hadn't followed her in) and saw him sitting at the kitchen table, angled towards the door so that he would see precisely when she exited. "Sherlock, what is going on?"

"Nothing" Sherlock replied, a slight 'deer caught in headlights' look on his face.

"It's not nothing Sherlock." Molly snapped, moving through to the kitchen and flipping on the kettle. "Are you bored? Is that it? Do an experiment or something!"

"I am not bored." Sherlock replied like a sulking child. "I am..." He wanted to say 'protecting you' but knew that her determined and independent streak would not hear of it.

"You're following me around! Watching my every move! Stalking me like some predator..." Molly replied, her control slipping. The scrutiny of the last two days getting to her finally.

Sherlock paused at her use of the word stalking, everything that Mycroft had said to him flashing to the forefront of his mind. His brother had been right, Molly would change his view of him if she knew how he felt. She would see him as disgusting for watching her. Mycroft had said that Molly would be angry, and Sherlock could see that unfolding before his very eyes. She was getting angry and upset and considered him a stalker.

"I am not stalking you." Sherlock said quietly. He stared at the tabletop in front of him, wondering why it hurt so much that Molly had said that.

"You are not letting me do anything alone. I am surprised you let me use the bathroom in peace..."

"I am not stalking you." Sherlock repeated, louder, only to have Molly continue on her rant.

"I am not used to this. To being followed and I just want to know why Sherlock..."

He was standing now, rising up to his intimidating height. He tried not to yell, but ended up sounding more aggressive than necessary when he said "Iam not a stalker!"

The change in his demeanour made Molly pause. "Sherlock, are you angry?"

He didn't respond. Instead he turned from her and moved into the living room, leaving Molly perplexed and bewildered. She followed, to find him sulking on the couch, tenseness rolling off of him in waves. Just like it had been in the hospital, Molly had no idea what had happened to make his mood change and even less of an idea of how to make it change back.

Seeing this as an opportunity for a little alone time, Molly made her way to the stairs. Halfway up them, however, she paused. Sherlock was in a bad mood, and she had unintentionally put him there. Guilt bubbled in her, making her turn and return to the living room.

His back was to her, his face impossibly close to the back of the couch. The image a reminiscent of every sulk she had ever heard John describe. Molly sat on the coffee table, wanting to reach out and touch him, but also unsure that the contact would be welcomed. "What's wrong Sherlock?"

He didn't reply, so she sighed and made his way to one of the arm chairs, picking up her book and flipping it open to the page she was up to. Staring at the pages but not taking in the words, she tried desperately to work out what was wrong with the great consulting detective.

Hs unusual behaviour had begun the night she had awoken in his chair. A few hours after they had almost kissed. Did it all come down to that? The near kiss they had almost shared. Was that the foundation of his strange behaviour over the last few days?

Molly stole a glance at Sherlock, who was still in a sulk. She sighed and closed her book, knowing she wouldn't be able to relax until he had returned to normal. Whatever she had done, she needed to rectify it, immediately.

"Don't!" As though he had read her mind, Sherlock's voice sounded from the couch. He knew she was going to try to make amends, and he didn't want to hear it.

"Sherlock...I..."

"I said don't" Sherlock barked, jumping up from the couch in one swift movement. They stared at each other, the tension between them, although unexplainable, was thick.

And only broken by the sound of someone cleaning their throat. Both sets of eyes swung to the doorway where John stood, his medicine bag in hand. "Am I interrupting something?"

Molly looked at Sherlock then shook her head. "Nothing to interrupt."

"I am here for your check up Molly" John announced, trying to break the tension again, but the daggers that Sherlock seemed to be staring at the young pathologist suggested that the intensity would not waiver any time soon. "Did you want to do it here or...?"

Molly looked between John and Sherlock, happy to have a reason to leave."Upstairs please."

Molly lead the way, John could not define the look on Sherlock's face just before he turned to leave. Hurt? Angry? Sickened?

His old room was very different now that it was inhabited by Molly. The same basic furniture was there, but he noticed she had pushed the bed to the opposite wall and changed the angle of the dresser. There was now an old leather reading chair in the corner and a small desk by the window. His old grey bedspread had been replaced with a soft blue one, and even that simple difference gave the room a much warmer, homey feel.

"Take off your shirt and lay face down on the bed Molly" John instructed, slipping into doctor mode as he positioned a pillow for her. Molly did as instructed, no nervousness, as she herself understood the role of a doctor. She could easily do her own bandage changes, but the occasional check up on the healing of the wound would have to be done by someone else as she could not see her own lower back.

John began his thorough check of her stitches, which seemed to be healing nicely. "Any pinching or ripping?"

"No" Molly replied.

"How's the pain?" Was his next professional question.

"Manageable"

John began his next question "No swelling or..."

"Sherlock almost kissed me!" Molly blurted. She had no idea why she had said it or why she was saying it to John, but it seems like a logical place to start in order to explain the situation the doctor had walked in on.

"...bruising?" John continued, then he registered what Molly had said. "I am sorry, he what?"

"Sherlock almost kissed me. I mean, we almost kissed each other. We were leaning in and ready to... Then my back started to hurt." Molly said quickly, then realising she was gossiping with the man in question's best friend, she stopped.

"And, ah, when was this?" John asked, still busying his hands on her back, applying some antiseptic cream.

"Two days ago" Molly replied, then positioned herself to look over her shoulder at him. "And he's been weird ever since. And then this morning, I think I said something to put him in a strop. I just don't know what it is."

John wiped the antiseptic off his hands, pondering the conversation. "When you say he's been weird, you don't mean he's been cranky for two days?"

"He's been..." Molly searched for the right words to describe the situation. "...needy?"

John cocked his head to the side, confused. "Needy"

"Hardly letting me out of his sight. Always trying to be close to me"

"It could just be Sherlock's way if being affectionate?" John suggested, not sure exactly what to say. He had never had to play relationship councillor for Sherlock Holmes before.

"Possibly" Molly mumbled distractedly. "But it feels different. He's off. Upset about something. And not just something I said. What ever it is has been on his mind since the near kiss."

John rubbed his hands over his face and Molly took the opportunity to sit up and put her shirt back on.

"I'll talk to him" John promised. "Get him out of the house for a few hours. Give you both some space."

"Thank you John"

0o0

It took almost an hour of begging, but John finally got Sherlock to get up from the couch and change into respectable clothes. He resisted the idea of going out almost violently and when John asked why, wouldn't give a reason. John didn't read too much into it, after all the years they had lived together, this was not the first time Sherlock had refused to go somewhere with him.

"Come on mate. Molly said you haven't been out in a while. Lets go grab a bight to eat... Or a pint somewhere."

It was another forty-five minutes before he finally had the detective on the sidewalk outside of Baker Street. Sherlock kept looking over his shoulder and mumbling that he shouldn't be leaving.

As the cab pulled away from the kerb, John began his attack. "You ok, Sherlock?"

"She shouldn't be alone" was his only reply. The detective continued to stare out the window at London as it passed, his phone clenched in his hand as though he expected it to ring at any moment. John took note of all of these behaviours and realised that while he had seen his friend in almost all of his possible moods, he had never seen him look this scared and anxious.

He knew it was his role as best friend to put Sherlock at ease. "Mrs Hudson is downstairs, Molly's not really alone."

Sherlock chuckled mirthlessly, looking at John directly for the first time since leaving Baker Street. "Mrs Hudson can hardly protect herself."

"Molly's strong." John reminded. he wished he knew exactly what was going on so that he could be more accuate in his comfort to his friend. "More than capable of being alone for a few hours"

"Last time I left her alone, she was stabbed." Sherlock replied neutrally.

Guilt. John knew what it felt like to carry guilt over someone else's injuries. A combination of his military career and his life as Sherlock's best friend had left him with a long list of injuries inflicted on others that plagued him almost daily. The easiest way to get over that guilt, he had realised, was knowing you weren't at fault. John knew that Molly would never blame Sherlock for her stabbing. And Sherlock would feel better once he realised that fact too. "Sherlock, that wasn't your fault."

"Never said it was." Sherlock snapped. John smirked and shook his head.

The streets flashed past them in a blur. John stared out the window just as his companion was, and decided it was as good a time as any to ask the question that was burning him up. "Molly said that you shared a... moment."

"If you are referring to our almost kiss" Sherlock began, still not taking his gaze from the taxi cab's window. "Then yes, a moment was shared."

John smiled. Grinned actually. He had been watching Sherlock and Molly grow closer since his return from the dead and was happy that they were slowly finding their way to each other. He had even made a bet with Mary at the wedding that they would be together before the year was out. (Mary had disagreed, mainly because of the presence of Tom. John couldnt wait to tell his wife that he had been right) John cleared his throat, knowing if he came on too strong in the interrigation then Sherlock would lock up and say nothing. a gentle approach was necessary. "We'll, I will admit that I am surprised."

"Why, you've seen me in a relationship before." Sherlock shrugged.

"Janine doesn't count." John laughed to himself, looking across at his friend to see Sherlock was also laughing. "You used her to get what you wanted."

"Maybe I want something from Molly." The smiled fell from the detectives face, and an extremely serious look took its place. John stared at his friend in awe. Was Sherlock admitting that he was using and manipulating Molly? He wouldn't, would he? wouldn't betray the feelings of a woman who would do anything for him? This was Sherlock Holmes, a man who got engaged to break into an office. The scary fact was, he was capable of despicable acts to get what he wanted. John tensed, about to give Sherlock a piece of his mind when he noticed the other man smiling once again. He had obviously been joking. "Companionship and affection, for starters. A relationship"

A relieved laugh left John, and Sherlock found himself laughing too. A series of his favourite army-grade swear words were very close to being uttered, but John decided to just say "I never thought I'd see the day that Sherlock Holmes would give in to basic human emotions."

"I have not given in to anything." Sherlock replied.

"Yet." John added sneakily.

Sherlock surprised him by sighing defeatedly. "Please don't. Don't get so much enjoyment from my heartache."

"Heartache?"

"If Molly opened up to you about the 'moment', as you call it, then I am sure she also told you have she really feels about me." He spoke directly to the window at his side, his tone suggesting that this was what he was upset about. "I believe 'stalker' was a word she used. Just because I have realised I have feelings for her does not mean that she returns them John."

"Wait, what?" John began, backtracking over his previous conversation with Molly. She had not mentioned anything about stalking. "Stalker? Why would she call you a stalker." He paused, things clicking into place. She had described him as needy and not letting her out if his sight. Obviously, somewhere along the way, wires had been crossed. "Sherlock?"

"I am just trying to protect her. I can't see her hurt again" Sherlock said weakly. "And when Moriarty came to Baker Street, he made no promises that he would not harm her again"

There was some new information. Outraged, he asked. "Sherlock? When did Moriarty come to your house?"

"Two evenings ago." Sherlock admitted.

"He was at your house?" John repeated, allowing the severity if the statement wash over him. Sherlock shot him a look, the look he usually shot someone with when he was requested to repeat simple information.

"Drank some of your whiskey."

Why had Molly mentioned this? "Where was Molly?"

"Asleep." Simple answer said simply, but John honestly felt like he was drowning under the intensity of the situation.

"And what did she say when you told her?" John tried, feeling like he already knew the answer to the question. "Sherlock, did you tell her?"

He shrugged. "No point in alarming her."

"No, no point in alarming her with the truth when you can achieve that with your behaviour." John asked. Sherlock looked at him quizzically. "She doesn't think you are a stalker, but she does think its weird that you haven't given her any space in the last few days."

"I am just trying to protect her"

"Protection, like a relationship, is a two way street, Sherlock" John began. While Sherlock had gone back to staring out the window, John could tell he was listening carefully to the Doctor's relationship advice. "She would be more accepting of your action if she knew where it was coming from."

"I am not a conversationalist, John." Sherlock stated,

"That's bull, and you know it." John couldnt help but laugh. He had never met a man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice more than Sherlock Holmes. "You'd talk under ten tonne of cement if the conversation was right."

"'Hey Molly, the man who tried to kill you two weeks ago came to visit and threatened us while you slept' isn't a conversation I would describe as right" came Sherlock's snappy reply.

"Would you hide things from her if she was your girlfriend?" John asked.

"Ugh, girlfriend"Sherlock groaned, throwing his head back onto the cab seat in disgust. "We are not 14, John."

"Then communicate with an her like an adult." John replied, sensing Sherlock was putting up his usual walls to bring the conversation to an end. John had just one more point to make before they moved on though. "That is what she is. A strong, independent adult who will accept none of your childish sulks when she's your girl... partner."

"When?"

John grinned at the hopeful tone Sherlock had used. "Caught that did you?"

0o0

Molly awoke the next morning after a comfortable and restful sleep and stretched in her bed. Rare morning sunlight shone through her parted curtains, bringing the promise of a happy day. She didn't know why, especially after the bizarre behaviour of the last few days, but she looked forward to returning to normalcy with Sherlock. If anyone had the ability to get through to Sherlock and remove him from his funk, it was John.

Awakening fully drew her attention to something unusual about her room. There was something on her bed, covering the blue bedspread in carefully considered patterns. She picked at it carefully as her mind provided her with the answer: Rose petals.

A grin broke her face as she followed the trail of petals. They ran off the edge of her bed, across her floor, and to her dresser that was situated in the corner. On top of said dresser was at least three dozen long stem roses. Molly bolted out of bed as quick as she could, getting tangled in her sheets and almost falling onto the floor.

"Oh" Molly grinned, her heart hammering in her chest. This was all so romantic! Completely out of character for Sherlock, but maybe this was his way of apologising.

The card of expensive paper lay invitingly amongst the roses, and she picked it up quickly. Hesitation gripped her. This was a grand gesture from him and on this card were his words. This was the beginning. He could feel it. Molly sat on the edge of her bed, opened the card, ready to make that definite change in her relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

_Dear Molly, you are pretty when you sleep. Love Jim xx_


	9. Chapter 9

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock bolted awake from his doze on the couch, sure he had heard his name being called. He looked around sleepily, trying to find himself through his early morning haze, only to have the terrified, feminine voice call for him again, somewhere above him.

"Sherlock!"

"Molly!" he replied, jumping to his feet and running towards the stairs that lead to her room. He met her half way as she fled her bedroom, a terrified look on her face. There was a piece of paper clasped in her hand, but he didn't get a chance to question it as the petrified woman threw herself into his arms.

Sherlock almost stumbled, balanced precariously in the stairs, but managed to support Molly as she clung to him, trembling. He wrapped her in what he had hoped was a comforting embrace, one arm around her middle, holding her body close, the other tanged in her hair, angling her cheek to his chest. It was a hug more intimate than any he had ever shared with a woman, but he felt her slightly relax instantaneously.

Her hair was soft and disheveled from sleep. He hadn't realised how long it had gotten since she so often wore it pulled back off of her face in the lab. Sherlock lowered his cheek to the top of her head, breathing her in in what he hoped were comforting breaths that she would imitate. Molly did, and relaxed even more, but her emotions still speed though her like a freight train.

One of Molly's hands, the one that was not clutching the folded paper, clawed at his back softly, trying to hold him as close as she could. Sherlock was a consistent safe point in her life, and after reading the note from Jim, she wanted to fold herself into his embrace (no matter how awkward it would be) and let him protect her. All of her previous bravado had evaporated almost instantly. Molly was scared.

They stood on the stairs until Molly calmed herself enough to pull away. Molly hadn't kept track of the duration, but Sherlock was keeping a tally of the time he held her close to him (almost ten minutes). Not wanting to meet his eyes, Molly stared at the floor while she composed herself, wordlessly pressing the now crumpled stationery into his hand.

Sherlock read it, then released her abruptly and continued up the stairs to her room.

"He was in here!" Molly said, following close on his heels. "He was in my room Sherlock."

Sherlock turned and took her upper arms in his strong hands. "Don't get hysterical Molly!"

Molly was taken aback by the tone. Many times he had said words similar to that to her, but never had he sounded so caring and compassionate. As he gripped her arms, it was to comfort her and the statement from his lips had been a plea not an order. Molly understood it immediately. Sherlock needed her to be brave, and while her fear was genuinely making her sick to her stomach, Molly Hooper was going to do the best she could to do as he asked.

He released her and turned to take in the scene. "What time did you go to bed last night?"

"Around ten?" Molly began, retracing the steps of the following night. "I was up here all evening, with the exception of making a pot of tea," she gestured to the tea tray in her bedside table. "I finished the book I was reading, messed around on my iPad for a while, then turned the lights out at quarter to. Feel asleep within 15 minutes."

Sherlock nodded, happy that Molly had filled in extra detail to establish a timeline. "I got home around ten too. Had dinner with John then stopped in at the Yard. Lestrade is on night shift, as my brother complains about often. Worked some evidence with him before coming home."

He crossed to the only window in Molly's room, large and positioned to catch the morning sun. Sherlock pulled back the curtains. "These windows don't open."

It was not unusual of buildings of Baker Street's vintage to have windows that were unable to be opened. It assisted with heating in the winter. Sherlock himself had a window in his room that did not open also.

"So he didn't get in that way." Molly filled in, mainly for herself.

"Which means he came in through the front door and up the stairs." Sherlock summarised. "I was in the living room all night, but I slept for the majority of it."

Molly reached out and squeezed his shoulder, letting him know that she did not judge him for sleeping. Sherlock, however, had slipped into his mind palace. "The door!"

Molly followed as Sherlock ran out of the room and down the stairs, investigating first the internal door into 221b, and then the external door out onto Baker Street. The thrill of the chase, even if it was just around the flat, was keeping the bubbling terror at bay. Sherlock was crouched by the door handle, mini-magnifier in hand, looking for any minute clues. From her distanced, non-detective eye, all Molly could see with certainty was that there were no signs of the door being forced.

"He entered Baker Street cleanly and exited much the same way." Sherlock mumbled. "I have to go to my mind palace."

Molly nodded and lead the way back into the living room of 221b. She watched as Sherlock crossed immediately to the couch (which showed the telltale signs that it had been his bed the previous night), sat and disappeared into his thoughts.

Putting the kettle on to pass the time turned into Molly doing the dishes, which led to her cleaning out the fridge, which then turned into her cleaning the kitchen fully, eliminating what could have been years of muck from all of the hard to reach places that even the thorough and organised Mrs Hudson missed. The next time Molly looked at her watch, minutes after spraying a vinegar and baking powder concoction into the oven, it was lunch time. The morning had disappeared.

Cleaning was calming her, and Molly decided that after making a sandwich for lunch, she would move onto the bathroom. Jim Moriarty, the foul monster of a man had been in her house (Molly didn't even pause to wonder when she had stated calling it her house and not Sherlock's). He had been there, who knows what he had touched. Everything was tainted by his presence.

After finishing her lunch, unsatisfying and reminiscent in taste of cardboard, she washed the plate then took her collection of cleaning supplies to the bathroom. It was a surprisingly large space with relatively modern fixtures. The only original piece in the whole room was the old, deep clawfoot tub. Above it was the shower head, which meant it was a bitch to climb in and out of for showering purposes, but Molly fantasised often about filling it with warm water and having a luxurious soak.

Maybe that would be the first thing she did when all this was over.

Again, the calm and quiet of her cleaning routine put her at ease. Usually Molly would listen to music while she was cleaning, but today, the idea of breaking the measured silence of the flat was unbearable. In her own home she had often felt lonely, that's why she had filled her life with Toby and music and the television chattering on in the background. At Baker Street with Sherlock, however, long stretches of silence were not daunting and alienating. There was a strange comfort to knowing she was sharing that silence with someone.

"You were probably right." Said silence was shattered by Sherlock's presence in the bathroom doorway. Molly let out a little shriek, unprepared for his low voice after hours of independence. "You living at Baker Street makes you no safer than if you lived in your own home."

"Sherlock," Molly ripped off her rubber gloves. "I know you hear this often, but you were right. I am safer here at Baker Street then I ever would be at home. I am alone there and here I have you."

"Not that I am doing all that well as your protector." Sherlock muttered, taking her by the wrist and pulling her out of the bleach smelling bathroom. "The man I am trying to protect you from has been in our home twice."

"That's hardly your fault..." She began, then paused as her mind caught up to her mouth. "Twice? Sherlock?"

"The other night, when you were asleep" Sherlock sighed in admittance, pushing past Molly to head towards the kitchen. He assumed she wouldn't want to be around him, now that she knew the secret he was holding, but was surprised when she followed. "I didn't tell you because I was trying to protect you. But he was here the night you fell asleep watching tele."

Molly allowed the information to sink in, while she herself sank into one of the doing room chairs in the spotless kitchen.

"I am sorry I didn't tell you" he muttered sincerely. "I didn't want to alarm you. John pointed out to me last night, however, that it was a dumb move on my part and that I should inform you."

Molly listened to Sherlock's apology. It was tense but from the heart, the words of a man who was not used to apologising to others, not of someone who didn't believe in what he said. It made it all the easier to accept his apology instantly. "Don't hold information like that back from me again please Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded before continuing carefully "I feel that it is not safe for you here much longer."

Molly's jaw dropped. After the fight he had put up to have her move to Baker Street 'for her own protection' was he really now trying to have this conversation? "What do you suggest then?"

"I feel you would be safest living with John and Mary." Sherlock began tentatively. He had a feeling that the following conversation would not go smoothly, he honestly anticipated a fight.

"No thanks." Her answer was direct and too the point.

"Molly, I fear it is not safe for you to remain here."

"And it is safe with a pregnant nurse and an ex-military doctor?" Molly asked.

Sherlock desperately wanted to bring up Mary's previous life as a...well, he still was unsure what it was Mary was hiding, but he assumed assassin, but knew it was not his secret to tell. If Mary wanted Molly to know she would have told the other woman by now.

Molly stood in an attempt to look intimidating, and Sherlock had to admit that it worked on a fundamental level. He shrank back ever so slightly. "I am not leaving. I... I like it here."

Sherlock was shocked when Molly approached him, taking his hand in hers and squeezing it softly in a reassuring manner. "It may be dangerous, but I know that you will do whatever you can to protect me. I am safe whenever I am with you."

Sherlock's gaze was glued to where their hands joined. "I hope your faith in me is not misguided."

Molly leant up and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "It's not" she whispered in his ear.

As she tried to step away, Molly noticed something was physically stopping her. A hand. Sherlock's hand specifically. He had wrapped it around her when she had kissed his cheek, and now he was not letting go. Not that Molly minded.

Sherlock pulled her closer, angling her so she stood in front of him. Molly was a willing recipient of the guidance, allowing herself to be manipulated against him. Molly sighed into his embrace, a small, contented sigh. This is what safety felt like, that was for sure.

Fingers stroked her cheek, making Molly's eyes flutter shut. The exploration of her cheek was cut short as Sherlock's strong hand buried itself in her hair and angled her face up to his. He descended upon her lips gradually, not wanting to rush the moment.

Molly had always thought that fireworks would explode inside her the first time she kissed Sherlock Holmes. They didn't, but she couldn't say she was disappointed. Replacing the expected fireworks was a warmth, spreading through her insides gradually. Spiralling from somewhere deep inside of her, devouring until her whole body was enveloped in it. The kiss was a comfort, like coming home after a long, hard day.

The kiss was soft yet deliberate, the detective's surprisingly talented lips exploring hers. There were no clashing tongues or mashing body parts, but the passion between them was still steadily rising. Molly stretched onto her toes to get a more comfortable access to Sherlock's mouth, fingers finally wrapping in the curls she had dreamt about for years. His hands still held her close, palming her lower back in a gentlemanly fashion.

Molly knew that this kiss would not end with them collapsing into bed together, but instead was a promise. This kiss was the start of something. The start that she had considered back in her room when she thought that the roses were from Sherlock. A promise that what they had, however undefined, was genuine and real. More than just a romp. That promise, to Molly, was the sexiest part of all.

Sherlock was the first to pull away, gently detaching himself from their embrace and taking a step back. Molly allowed him to, as she did not wish to overwhelm him.

"I'll remove the flowers from your room so that you don't have to see them." Sherlock whispered, disentangling his hand from hers with a slight look of longing. It had been the final place that they had been touching, but the warmth of his palm still remained.

Molly tried to think of something to say, but wasn't given the chance as Sherlock fled the room.

0o0

Jim shuddered as his feet hit the threadbare rug beneath his couch. The carpet felt gritty and coarse, like sandpaper against his feet.

It was only temporary, he knew that, but he was missing the luxuries that he usually surrounded himself with. Gone were the plush pillows and dense carpeting, exchanged for the sad and pathetic home he had set himself up with.

It could be worse, he knew. It could have been prison. Although numerous similarities arose in his mind, he squashed them. He at least had the comfort of freedom, the ability to leave when the coast was clear.

Being the United Kingdom's most wanted was a career high, but murder on his social calendar. Leaving his new dwelling was difficult without being recognised and having the authorities called. But it was also getting to the point where business was slowing due to his domestic imprisonment. He would have to leave the house eventually.

It was what he wanted. It was not in him to be hidden away, but he needed the opportunity to formulate a plan and work on recognisance. He had to admit the location was convenient for that.

There was a chill in the air and Jim had no choice but to pull his comforter up around him to ward off the cold. The heating was disconnected. Another thing luxurious Jim never would have lived without. To be wrapped in a blanket for warmth like some savage was both demeaning and degrading. He was glad there were no witnesses he would have to kill.

Somewhere in the building, more than likely in the apartment above him, someone was walking. Thin walls. Another thing to add to his complaint list. Not that he had anyone to complain too, mind you.

The situation was less than ideal. Between the noisy neighbours, the cold and the feeling of uncleanliness, Jim had to continually remind himself why he had chosen this place, of all of the available places in London.

He had chosen this dank and smelly studio apartment, because if you were tracking Sherlock Holmes, there would be no better place to live (rent free and unbeknownst to the landlady) than 221c Baker Street.


	10. Chapter 10

Molly spent more time that afternoon cleaning. Finishing off the bathroom, she then ran Mrs Hudson's vacuum cleaner over the old, rough carpets throughout the flat. She was returning a pile of books that had toppled over under the window to the bookshelf when she realised, surprisingly, Sherlock was cleaning too.

At first she had considered him to be working on the case. After he had removed the token of Jim's affection, he had moved to his desk in the living room, moving around stacks of paper. But now the rubbish bin beside the desk was overflowing, making it obvious that he had tidied.

The second hint that he was cleaning was when he entered the kitchen, picked up one of the domestic cleaners Molly had found in the back of a cupboard, and disappeared into his room. Molly had almost missed the action due to the sound of the vacuum, but smiled as he glared at the bottle on his retreat.

By the time Molly was up to straightening the couch cushions in the living room, Sherlock was banging around in the linen closet, cursing. Molly looked down the hall to see him searching through miscellaneous pillow cases and well used towels before victoriously finding his spare set of sheets.

Eventually, Molly gave up on cleaning, turning her attention to cooking. Grocery shopping was on the to do list in the next few days, she had realised, but tonight she had enough to scrape together a basic dinner for them. Attention solely on the cooking, she didn't heard Sherlock enter.

"Smells good." He muttered, lifting the lid on the pot simmering on the stove. Molly smiled as he brushed past her, a lot closer then was necessary to get to the other side of the kitchen.

"Thanks." Molly grinned. "Not much to work with around here. Have you even been grocery shopping since John moved out?"

Sherlock made a face that looked like a child thinking. Molly giggled.

"I'll go to the shops tomorrow." Molly announced, taking plates from the cupboard beside Sherlock's head. He turned and took the plates away from her, moving to set the table.

At the shocked smile Molly shot him, Sherlock put up a mask suggesting he was insulted.. "My mother raised me with all the manners and refinement of a perfect gentleman. I just sometimes forget them."

"Only sometimes?" Molly grinned. It was nice to flirt with Sherlock and have him flirt back for once.

"I don't think it's such a good idea" Sherlock began, and at Molly's slight frown, he continued with clarification. "Going to the shops tomorrow, I mean."

"We have to eat something." Molly began.

"I merely mean that I don't want you to go alone." Sherlock replied, pushing himself away from the table and over to the sink, where Molly was straining and cooling some pasta. Molly slapped his hand away gently, and couldn't help grinning as he burnt his tongue.

"You could come with me?"Molly suggested as Sherlock waved his hand in front of his burning mouth quite comically.

"Oh god no!" Sherlock moaned, collapsing into his seat at the table. "I don't do tesco"

Molly sighed, taking some garlic bread she had thrown together out of the oven. "Then how will I go shopping?"

"Take Mary" Sherlock suggested. "Make a day out of it. Have lunch and do some baby shopping or something."

Molly considered only briefly before agreeing. She liked Mary, but had only spent a little bit of time together. This was the second time in only a few days that Sherlock had shown trust in his best friend's wife. If Sherlock, who was the worlds best judge of character wanted her to spend time with Mary, then she would do it.

"Besides John and I are going to go through the flat tomorrow, ensuring the safety of the place is at its highest." Sherlock informed her, pulling out a chair and relaxing comfortably into it. "But until then, I think you should sleep with me."

Molly dropped her wooden spoon and looked over at her companion. "Oh do calm down Molly. I mean sleep in my bed, with me, if I choose to sleep tonight, of course."

Molly was willing to bet that Sherlock had phrased his statement suggestively on purpose, either as a joke or a flirt, but the image that immediately popped into her mind made a blush stain her cheeks. While she picked up the spoon and threw it to the sink, Molly realised his plan did make sense. Being close to each other while sleeping provided a safety net against nocturnal intruders.

"Logical" Molly commended, placing the food on the table and gesturing for him to begin serving. "Is that why you changed your sheets?" She teased.

"Didn't think you'd appreciate the mess I'd let it fall into." Sherlock admitted, and instead of serving the food moved into the living room. He returned shortly afterwards with a bottle of red wine.

She served and he poured, they ate and conversed and made a silent toast, clinking their wine glasses together and hoping the other was toasting something similar to them: the health of their relationship.

0o0

"Of course we are hoping for a healthy, happy baby." Mary grinned as she raised her glass to her mouth and took a sip of her water. "But if it is a girl, John owes me 50 quid."

Molly smiled and speared another piece of her salad with her fork. It was nice to be out of Baker Street. It had been her prison for the last few days, making her honestly forget how nice it was to be outside. The sun shone down on her as they sat at a table on the pavement outside if the cafe building, making Molly occasionally look up and smile.

"How is your back?" Mary asked. Being a nurse she held a fascination for injuries, and knew that as a pathologist Molly would be fine talking about it.

"Healing well" Molly nodded, "I was lucky that the internal injuries I had were only minor. Now it's just a matter of allowing it to heal. An act which is boring the life out of me, I'll tell you."

After the stabbing it had been decided that Molly would take some time off of work not only to heal but also to ensure her safety while her attacker was on the loose. At first, Molly was happy to have a little bit of holiday time, as it had been years since she had taken any time off, but now she was growing restless, the only thing amusing her was her burgeoning new relationship with Sherlock.

She had slept in his room the evening before, but there was no sign that he had joined her. She hadn't entirely expected him to. Over coffee that morning he had admitted that he popped his head in to check on her every now and then, but it was not like he was 'watching her sleep'. He had been so insistent that he wasn't doing it to be creepy. Molly had grinned through his explanation.

They hadn't kissed again since their first in the kitchen, but their relaxed, flirty nature was the new normal around Baker Street. Molly didn't mind, she was so excited by the prospect of a relationship with him that she didn't care how fast it moved.

"Molly?" Mary was trying to get her attention and it was only then that Molly realised she had slipped into a day dream about the kitchen incident the day before and had been completely ignoring her lunch companion. "Where did you just go?"

Molly let out a nervous laugh "Sorry. What were you saying?"

"I asked how it was going living with Sherlock?" Mary repeated. "Is he behaving well?"

"Very well." Molly nodded, "Perfect gentleman."

Mary grinned, "That's my boy. Keeping his hands to himself then?"

Molly choked on her water, Mary laughed. "I am sorry, I couldn't help myself! John told me that you almost kissed the other night. Any more progress on that, because if you two have admitted your feelings, then I owe him 50 quid."

Molly watched Mary lift her glass to her mouth, waiting till the other woman had just taken a sip before stating "We have actually."

Now Mary choked on her water, "What? I was joking. When? Where? How?"

Molly, overwhelmed by the questioning played with her napkin in her lap. "Yesterday. We kissed. It was...nice."

"Nice!" Mary sat dumbfounded, "Nice! A man you have been head over heels for forever kisses you and it's just nice? Stars? Explosions? Fireworks?"

"It was gentle. Soft. Graceful" Molly began, running back over the event in her mind and working for the best way to describe it. "Hopeful."

Mary grinned, "I am very happy for you Molly." She considered her words carefully before continuing "You'll be good for him, you know. You won't let him get away with his usual crap."

"I'll try not too." Molly began, only to be cut off by Mary.

"Try?" Mary was playfully outraged. "A wise man once said 'Do or do not, there is no try."

Molly giggled. "That's Yoda."

"I hope that you are not questioning the wisdom of Master Yoda." Mary chucked to herself then, looking fro her empty plate to Molly's. "Shall we shop? I know you have to do your boring grocery shopping, but I have this bad boy," she produced a credit card with the name 'Dr John Watson' clearly visible on it. "I intend on using it."

While they browsed a few baby shops, they mainly occupied their afternoon with clothes shopping. Mary got a few flowing tops to accommodate her growing baby belly and Molly even found herself digging out her own credit card for a few items that she would usually consider a luxury.

For a few hours, she forgot that Jim Moriarty was on the loose.

After recreational and grocery shopping, Mary and Molly shared a taxi home (Molly couldn't get an admission from the other woman, but she was sure Sherlock had insisted upon it). Molly struggled up the stairs with her purchases, keen after her long but enjoyable day to just collapse on the couch (hopefully with Sherlock.)

He had been right. Mary was an amazing person. Molly had felt comfortable and safe in her presence all day. She hoped the opportunity to spend more time with her would come up more often. Of course it would, Molly realised, Mary was John's wife and she was Sherlock's...pathologist.

Didn't matter what she was, as long as she was Sherlock's.

She was just about to yell out to said consulting detective that she was home when the phone in her pocket beeped. She pulled it out, reading the message quickly. Sherlock had been called in to help Lestrade but he was on his way home soon. Molly shrugged. She was a grown adult, she could look after herself. She busied herself with putting away the groceries.

"What's for dinner babe?"

Molly dropped the carton of milk in her hand and gripped the fridge handle, not wanting to turn around and face the voice behind her. Jim was in her house... again.

"I am sorry to hear about Toby" he continued, peeking into the shopping bag and pulling out a box of cereal. "Is this the type that Sherlock likes?"

Molly turned, feeling sick to the stomach at the sight of her ex-boyfriend in her kitchen. He stood there, digging though her shopping like he owned the place.

"Ooh, nice." Jim grinned, pulling one of the tops she had bought out of the bag and holding in front of himself. "Not quite your colour but..." He suddenly laughed. "It's the same as Sherlock's favourite scarf."

Molly lunged and ripped the garment out of his hand. That had not been the reason she bought it. Jim only laughed harder.

"Believe me Molly," Jim began, laughter subsiding. "I am happy for the two of you. All you ever did while we dated was talk about him, I am glad he's come to his senses."

Molly glanced around the room, searching for something to use as a weapon. Unfortunately, Jim stood between her and the knife block.

"How does he kiss?" Jim asked, stepping closer, intimidating his prey. "Everything you've every imagined? Was it good? To finally hold him against you? To twist those delicate little hands of yours into his curls?"

A flicker of movement at the door caught her attention and the moved herself fractionally to see what it was. Mary Watson stood there, finger pressed to her lips.

Molly was suddenly in two minds. It was good to have someone else there, but really, what was a pregnant nurse going to achieve in this situation. She only hoped that the other woman had texted John and Sherlock.

"You haven't answered any of my questions Molly." Jim mumbled, close enough to her ear to be heard. "That's very rude."

Suddenly, Jim lurched forward, pressing his whole body against hers before he was violently ripped away. Molly watched, mouth agape as Mary Watson threw the fully grown man onto the kitchen table and bashed her fist into his jaw. Jim stood, disoriented, and Mary continued to fight, a series of complicated hand-to-hand combat moves leaving her body with practised precision.

Jim rolled onto his back, losing consciousness. Mary stood above him, panting slightly. Molly seemed to be matching her breaths.

The women looked at each other. A million questions buzzed in Molly. Mary had a million answers. But the first one out of Molly was "Are you ok? The baby?" She rushed to her friends side, dragging her to the living room and pushing her into Sherlock's chair.

"I feel fine." Mary said, "but I'll get John to do a double check when he gets here."

Molly didn't feel comfortable with that and tried for the next few minutes to make Mary go to the hospital. Mary continued to dismiss her. "Don't you have questions?"

"Of course." Molly replied. "But order of priority is: you, the baby, thanking you for saving my life and then caring about how you collected those skills." They both laughed. "Although, it explains why Sherlock trusts you to look out for me."

Mary was about to say something, when the arrival of the men at the door interrupted her. "What the hell happened?"

John ran to his wife side, crouching before her and taking her hands in his. Mary tried to lighten the situation. "The usual. We had lunch, did some shopping, I fought off a deadly criminal."

"My God!" John said, turning to look over his shoulder at Molly before turning back to his wife. "Is everyone ok?"

"Yes," Molly jumped in before Mary could. "But Mary is refusing to go to the hospital."

"Rubbish!" John almost bellowed, making everyone recoil. "Get up Mary, lets go."

Sherlock, who had been suspiciously quiet up to that point finally said something. "Where is he?"

Three heads swivelled to him. John looked like he was about to fight his friend's priorities, whereas the women looked horrified by the information. Sherlock was standing in the thin doorway between the living room and the kitchen, in almost the exact spot that Moriarty had passed out. He must of regained consciousness and left sometime between Molly dragging her friend to the chair and the men entering. A window that was realistically no more than five minutes.

"He escaped." Sherlock stated. "So there's not much we can do now." He added, shocking everyone in the room. "Get your wife medical attention."

Knowing not to look a gift horse in the mouth, John pulled Mary to her feet and ushered her out of the flat with not so much as a goodbye. Sherlock waited to hear the external door of Baker Street close before launching into an attack of his own.

He pulled Molly to her feet in lightning speed, drawing a startled sound from her, which was smothered as he wrapped her in the strongest embrace he could. Molly buried her head in his chest, breathing deeply, exhaustion and confusion welling within her.

"I am sorry. I am sorry." Sherlock continued to repeat into her hair. "I'll never leave you alone again."

"It's ok." Molly replied after a few minutes of apology. "I am ok."

Sherlock nudged her chin off his chest with his finger and angled it to be kissed. This kiss was different. Deep and hungry, Sherlock devoured her with passion and need. A need to know she was ok, a need to know she was alive. Molly felt a little lightheaded, but returned the kiss, tightening her embrace on his shoulders, her body pressed longingly against his.

Sherlock pulled away and Molly let out a whimper at the loss. Then she covered her mouth, embarrassed that that sound had escaped her. Sherlock smirked, and Molly realised there was a sign of certain arousal in his eyes. Probably the same as the one in hers.

"I am sorry I wasn't here." Sherlock said a final time. Molly forgave him instantly. He stroked her cheek. "I'll cook tonight." It was a statement, not a question. "But first, the kitchen is a crime scene, I have to work. Why don't you go run a bath, relax, and by the time you get out, I'll have everything sorted."

0o0

Sherlock waited until he heard the tap close off in the bathroom. He had set Molly up with a book, some music and a few candles (all things he had heard Mary claim were part of a relaxing evening.) The massive tub had taken forever to fill, but when it finally did, and Sherlock could hear the music playing, he knew she was occupied and it was time to get to work.

After checking his phone was in his pocket, incase Molly needed anything, Sherlock took one last look around before leaving 221b.

He moved down the stairs to the landing outside Mrs Hudson's. the he turned down a small corridor and down three dank concrete steps to another apartment door. He knocked ceremoniously on the door of 221c.

"Come on Jim" he said forcefully. "I know you're in there!"

A/N: sorry it took me a few extra days to get this chapter ready. Life got busy. I hope you like this one, because I think this chapter is one of my favourites.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock pushed against the door and felt its weight shift. It was unlocked. Which meant his entrance was expected.

He entered the small flat, the smell of mould assaulting his nostrils almost immediately. Mrs Hudson often complained about the damp aspect in the small studio apartment, stating it was why the place was impossible to rent. Sherlock never said it out loud, but he was sure that the place was uninhabitable mainly because 221c was a shithole.

From his vantage point by the door, Sherlock could tell that Jim was not present, but there were numerous signs that his nemesis had in fact been living there. Rubbish waiting to be disposed of, a leather bound diary on a small side table and the heavy odour of expensive cologne, just to name a few.

"Jim?" Sherlock called. He wasn't in the room, but it was possible that the criminal was in the adjoining bathroom and had not heard him enter. He stepped further into 221c approaching the bathroom door that was ajar.

He wasn't in there either. In the commotion, he had obviously fled the building completely. It was like him to flee, he would need time to recoup, especially after his run in with Assassin Watson.

Sherlock made his way back to the main room, taking in everything his eyes set on. Particularly the diary.

Of course Moriarty would be self indulgent enough to keep a diary, probably under the deluded notion that it could be published one day, held high like some sort of masterpiece, but Sherlock saw it as a risky move. Surely he would not make the mistake of writing down details that could easily be used to incriminate. Sherlock opened the book, the well cracked spine flipping open to a page in the middle, and he almost dropped the item in disgust.

A photograph of Molly graced the pages, obviously taken without her knowledge through the horizontal blinds at her flat. The view was into the bathroom, of Molly stepping out of the shower. But the image was defaced. Black pen scribbled across her breasts. And a single word. 'Disgusting'

He flipped to the next page, and it was a picture of Molly again. This time a small picture often printed in medical journals when Molly had a paper published. This time it was her eyes that were scratched from the paper.

Page after page, pictures of Molly, defaced and commented upon. Moriarty had a sick fascination with Molly. A tremor started in Sherlock's hand as he continued to flip the pages.

Then suddenly the pictures stopped. Words dominated the pages that followed, scratched in insane strokes. The same words, over and over again. 'Shame' 'humiliation' 'disgraced'

The last page of the diary was a surprise, and if the situation was any different, Sherlock knew he would have laughed, it was an actual diary entry, even starting with the words Dear Diary (he was sure for theatrical purposes.) It spoke of the disgrace Moriarty felt after his name was slandered, discussed the humiliation related to whole situation, and in a conclusion that made Sherlock's stomach turn, outlined his plan.

'I'll kill her Sherlock' the entry ended, speaking directly to its reader now 'But I'll make her suffer first.'

0o0

When Molly left the bathroom through the side door into Sherlock's room, she was surprised to see him moving frantically around the space. On the bed was her overnight bag, and a second small suitcase, which he was organising with his own things.

"Sherlock?"

He looked up, wild eyes relaxing almost instantly. He didn't stop his frenzied packing however, throwing shirts and pants into the open case.

"Sherlock?"

He paused, a pair of socks in his hands, and stared directly at Molly. "We are going to leave Baker Street for a little while."

Molly fought the temptation to say 'obviously', merely nodding and crossing to where he stood, prying the balled up socks out of his tense hands. "I've never seen you like this."

"Because I am never like this." Sherlock replied, and the truthfulness of the statement almost broke her heart. Taking his hand in hers, she led him to the bed and sat him down, crouching onto the floor before him so she could see his eyes.

"Talk!"

It was an order, but Sherlock also knew it was what he needed, to sort through his thoughts. It was why he had kept John around and now it was a role filled by Molly. "He's living in 221c."

Molly's hands left his to cover her mouth.

Sherlock took a deep breath before continuing. "I've sent word to Mrs Hudson to stay at her sisters for a few days until I have this under control. I am getting you out of here too."

Sherlock paused, because he knew that Molly would have complaints. "Me? What about you?"

"I'll be with you" Sherlock replied, "but I will also be working the case. I promise that I will come home to you every single time I can Molly, but I can't work a case and be worried about you at the same time. That foul vermin, that undeniable evil needs to be terminated once and for all. It is going to take time, an unknown amount of time, but I promise to you, Molly Hooper, that I will not let any harm come to you. He'll never take you away from me, no matter how hard he tries."

Molly lunged at him then, her hands tangling into his hair, her lips crashing onto his. Sherlock, surprised by her reaction to his words, fell back onto the bed, Molly resting on his chest. Molly's lips attacked his, and while Sherlock had no idea what he had said or done to deserve the reaction, he kissed her back, hands rising to her back.

When she did pull back from his body, Molly answered the question in his eyes. "No man had ever said such nice things to me... About me."

Sherlock tightened his grip on her, staring at her face with such intensity it made Molly look away. Sherlock recaptured her gaze "And that is a true crime."

Molly was suddenly overwhelmed, pulling away from Sherlock to sit on the edge of the bed. "Oh God. You must think I am so foolish. Making this all about my stupid feelings when there is a madman just downstairs."

"Not currently" Sherlock sat up to sit with her. The ways of women would always be a mystery to him, but if John was correct, the ways of women were a mystery to all. Sherlock stroked her back. "We all deal with fear differently Molly. And believe me, if that's how you deal with fear, you are welcome to be scared all the time."

Molly laughed at the stupid joke but understood that he was trying to put her at ease. She squeezed his hand as a thank you. "That really was a sweet thing you said to me."

"And I meant it" Sherlock smiled. "Molly Hooper, no harm will come to you. The same way that you would never let harm come to me. I think that maybe I..."

She squeezed his hand to stop his words, not needing to hear them. Then abruptly she stood, and started to throw items into the two bags on the bed. "So, where are we going?"

"The safest place I know."

0o0

"Oh Sherlock!" The door swung open to reveal a kind, middle aged woman, who ran down the garden path with her arms wide open. Sherlock shot a glance at Molly, who stood nervously at his side, then turned to his mother arms outstretched. "I've missed you."

"Rubbish mother" Sherlock said, returning the hug. "I was here at Christmas"

"Yes, and then Mikey said you had to go away again" Violet homes pulled out of the hug, holding her son at arms length, eyes drinking him in like she hadn't seen him in years. "Without saying goodbye this time."

"And did Mikey say where he was sending me?" Sherlock fished, but knew instantly it was a lost cause, as his mother's eyes had left him and were locked on Molly.

"Oh dear, is this Molly?" Violet pulled away and moved to look at the young pathologist, holding her at the same arm length to investigate. Molly automatically felt self conscious under Sherlocks mother's gaze. "You are every bit as beautiful as my son said."

"I never said that" Sherlock spat in an embarrassed tone, making both women snap their attention to him. "I mean, I think it all the time, but I didn't say it."

Molly laughed at the panic Sherlock was showing while Violet waved her hand to dismiss him. "Come on Molly. Sherlock, take her bag." She turned the younger woman towards the house with a gentle and warm arm around her shoulders. "I swear I taught my boys to be gentlemen."

Molly entered the cosy living room of the Holmes' house. The mismatched, comfortable sofas and large wooden bookshelves made Molly feel at home instantly. Every available space was filled with knick knacks and photographs, framed certificates and vases overflowing with flowers, Sherlock shut the door behind Molly and his mother, placing the bags neatly by the door.

"Now" Violet began, clapping her hands together. "I'll put the kettle on. Tea? Coffee Molly dear?"

"Tea would be lovely Mrs Holmes." Molly replied while Sherlock grumbled that she hadn't asked him.

Violet agains dismissed her son with a playful hand. "I am Violet, Molly, not Mrs Holmes! Sherlock, why don't you show Molly around, take her up to get settled and I'll make the tea."

Sherlock picked up both bags in one hand, then wrapped his other hand around Molly's. Molly followed him to a small set of wooden stairs in the corner of the sitting room. They climbed them slowly, allowing Molly to look at the collection of artworks and photographs. Pictures of Sherlock and Mycroft at varying ages was a surreal experience. Even as young men, they preferred to wear suits.

The came to a landing and Sherlock started his tour. "This is Mum and Dad's room" he indicated to a door to his left. He then pointed to one directly across from it. "Mycroft's old room, now Dad's study for his little project. And the next door is the bathroom."

Molly didn't get a chance to ask what Siger's little project was as Sherlock continued up the stairs, their entwined fingers giving her no chance to follow. On the second landing there was only one door. From the location, Molly could tell they were about to enter an attic space. It was the signs on the door that made it obvious that this was Sherlock's room. Molly let out a small giggle at the hand written sign, stating that the genius in side the room was not to be disturbed.

"I beg mother, every single time I visit, to clean out all my old stuff." Sherlock sighed, opening the door. "She goes on about reminiscence."

Molly stepped into what she had correctly identified as the attic room. Two large windows were on the sloped ceiling, between them an old cast iron double bed. Across from the bed was a large desk, still scattered with books and scientific instruments. There was a full human skeleton in the corner (wearing a bow tie) and above it was a large insect collection, pinned expertly to a foam board. It reminded her of Baker Street.

Sherlock set down the bags and stepped up behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. Molly leant back onto his chest, a move that she was still surprised he would allow. "When will you be heading back to London?"

"In the morning" Sherlock replied. "I'll track Moriarty and work on bringing him down."

Molly nodded, turning in his grasp. His hands slipped from her shoulders to her hips. "And you'll succeed."

"No question. Of course I will" Sherlock laughed.

"Don't!" Molly said through her own smile. "Don't do that. Don't hide, Sherlock. If you are worried or concerned about this case. If you need anything at all, please tell me. Don't hide until its too late for me to help you."

Sherlock rested his forehead against hers but said nothing. He didn't want Molly involved in the case anymore, especially now that he had learnt just how important she was. To the case and to him personally.

"Sherlock," she whispered, hands caressing his sides. "Promise me!"

"I promise."

A/N: hi all. My mind is leading this fic in a direction that may require a rating change. I am still not 100% sure that that's where I want this to go, but I just thought I'd warn you just in case.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N1: thank you for the continued positive feedback about this story. I have decided to go with the rating change, but I think that t keep it inline with the progression of the story, our beloved Sherlolly won't just be falling straight into bed together. I am trying to capture the slow exploration between them. Slowly, slowly, if you know what I mean. I hope the scene in this chapter is ok, I've never written anything as full on as this one before, so it may be terrible... Just let me know.

0o0

For the first time in their relationship's short history, Sherlock slept beside Molly. He never had troubles sleeping at his parent's home, curled up in his teenage bed, cocooned in his adolescent blankets. The old home was a haven for him, it had not been a lie when he had told Molly it was the safest place he of the only places where Sherlock's restless mind felt at rest.

Slumber had come quickly, but he had woken up a few times in the night, mainly because of his companion. Molly had also slept soundly, hardly stirring or moving. But the fact that she was there at all was influencing his rest. Her presence was comfortable and pleasantly distracting.

Molly was the first girl he had ever had in his room. A teenaged Sherlock used to dream of the time that he would bring a nice girl to his room and they would share share his bed (before he had deleted the whole idea as stupid, of course) and now here he was, not just with a woman in his room, but with the most beautiful, loving and caring woman he had ever met. It was sending his hormones crazy. Like he had reverted back to teen behaviour, he was straining to stop himself from walking her up with kisses and caresses.

He finally got back to sleep, waking the next time at about dawn with an arm slung across her hips, her back against his chest and her legs entangled with his. Every inch of her back was pressed against his front. He had awoken to definite torture. They had discussed the evening before that Sherlock needed to leave to get back to the case as soon as possible, but now, locked in this ecstasy, his mind started questioning why he couldn't head back to London later. Anything to prolong this moment.

He propped himself up a tiny bit to look down at her. In the soft dawn light, she looked like a goddess. His goddess. She was smiling softly in her sleep. He wondered what a pathologist dreamt of? What a good dream was in her mind? He liked her like this, relaxed and happy, and he knew he would stop at nothing to ensure she was this happy always.

Sherlock returned his head to the pillow, snuggling his face to the back of her neck, needing to be closer still. Molly giggled in her sleep. A breathy sound that stirred something in Sherlock's stomach. Molly released another breathy laugh, obviously his early morning facial scruff was tickling her neck. He did it again and was rewarded with the same reaction.

" 'Erlock" Molly half breathed, half giggled as she sleepily squirmed away from his tickles. Sherlock removed his head and pulled her back against his chest instantly, the idea of her leaving his space in the bed making him uneasy. "Good morning."

"Morning." Sherlock replied, and no longer worried that his attention might wake her, he pressed a soft kiss to her neck. Molly grinned, tilting so he could access her skin.

"What's gotten into you?" Molly whispered heavily, sleep and growing arousal making it hard to speak with clarity.

"For the first time in my life," Sherlock began, his baritone vibrating against the column of her neck as he alternated words and nibbles. "I have a gorgeous girl in my bed."

"Your room didn't see much action as a teen then?" Molly asked, confident that she knew the answer.

"Oh it saw action." Sherlock admitted after a deliciously long lick to her collarbone. "But none of it with a second participant."

Molly pulled away and looked up as Sherlock, whose eyes were becoming dilated with desire. "Are you suggesting...?"

He pulled her willingly onto her back and shifted so he half covered her. "As a young man with an experimental mind, of course I..." He suddenly shied away from the word 'masturbated', capturing her lips with his again.

"It's hard to believe you at that age with those desires." Molly grinned teasingly when her lips were released again.

"Let's just say 14 year old me is very proud right now." Sherlock grinned in return, then with a kiss and a stroke of his hand down her side, Molly was rendered incapable of continuing conversation.

As they kissed, his hands grew bolder, fingers pushing under the hem of her comfortable flannel pyjamas to dance over her hips, across her belly and up her side. He was tentative, explorative and above all else respectful. Exactly what she had grown to expect from romantic dealings with Sherlock Holmes. It was nice to be treated this way, like she was precious, but she wanted desperately to let him know that she wouldn't break under more forceful caresses.

He still was awkwardly positioned, half on her, half on the mattress, so Molly shifted herself under him gently, wedging and pulling so more of his weight was on top of her. He relaxed into their new positioning, never leaving her mouth, where now tongues had joined the battle. In this new position, her hand also grew bold, pushing under his worn grey shirt to stroke his back softly.

Molly slid her legs outward slowly, allowing Sherlock to fall naturally into the space between her thighs. He paused, lips stationery on hers until she nudged him back into action with a gentle nip at his mouth. She knew what she was doing, it was time for Sherlock to trust her. Hands hooked under his shirt and removed it quickly. Sherlock grinned lazily.

Molly could feel Sherlock, hard and heated, pressed against her through the silk and flannel of their bottoms. When Sherlock went back to assaulting her neck, she gave a fractional upward thrust. Sherlock paused, a tiny whimper escaping him. Loving his reaction, she did it again, harder, making his eyes close in lust.

She didn't do it again, swapping instead to running her fingers all over his exposed flesh. Hard lower back, protruding spine, strong shoulders, solid biceps. Under all those tailored suits, Sherlock Holmes was a fine specimen of a man. Her hands continued their exploration, across his collar bones, down into the soft chest hair. It was then that she was cut short, one of Sherlock's big hands trapping her dainty ones. Molly blinked, perplexed.

"My scar." he muttered shyly, and Molly realised that if she had continued her mapping of his chest, her fingers would have eventually brushed against the scar from when he was shot. "It's...sensitive."

Molly could hear the subtext, and while she had never known him to be vain about things like scars and injuries, she could tell he was about this one. No, she realised, not vain. Self conscious. After one last kiss to his lips, Molly wriggled down and pressed a ghost-soft kiss to the thin, surgically precise line of scar tissue. The noise that escaped him was between a sigh and a moan. Molly kissed her way back up, over the rest of his chest, neck and then back to his mouth. Sherlock gripped her hip, eyes screwed shut.

"I am sorry" she whispered, realising a line may have just been crossed.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Even with all my faults..."

Molly laughed, the sound flirtatious in its delivery. "Of all your faults Sherlock, a scar is the least likely to get in our way." Sherlock laughed too as Molly took his hand from her hip, slipping it around her back and under her pyjamas, leading his fingertips to her own patch of scar tissue. "I'll love your imperfections if you love mine."

Sherlock caught her by surprise as he went back to worshipping her mouth. "You have no imperfections, Molly Hooper."

Her joking retort that maybe her unwavering dedication to him could be counted as an imperfection died in her brain as Sherlock kissed all possible thoughts from her mind. His hand that had been on her lower back slid down her leg, hooking her knee up to cradle him, giving her hips a tilted angle which made her moan.

A thousand thoughts exploded in her mind, only to be replaced by blissful silence. Sherlock's lips, his hands, his body dominating her space, slowly, carefully, deliberately. He fingers played with the buttons of her pyjamas, stopping only to brush the taut, smooth skin underneath.

Molly Hooper had been dreaming of this since the day she'd officially met Sherlock. She had played out every possible scenario of the first time she was to be intimate with him, but this reality was so much better. Her over active imagination never would have filled in the tiny little details like the heat of his body on hers or the scruff of his unshaven skin.

Her other knee was now bent, holding Sherlock between them. She relaxed their grip, only when he struggled softly, kissing a path down her neck and down the exposed skin that her now unbuttoned shirt provided. As he worked his way up and down her chest leisurely, he nudged the fabric away, revealing her naked chest to him for the first time.

Molly was proud that she did not shy away from the detective's intense gaze. He was memorising her, lust filled eyes scanning the rise and fall of her breast, angle of her ribs, gentle dip of her stomach and return rise if her hips. He shocked her slightly when he eventually lowered his head to her stomach again, nuzzling his face into her abdominal muscles. Molly laced her fingers into his hair, allowing him to stay there as long as he wanted.

As long as wanted turned out to be minutes. A long stretch of minutes where they both calmed, thrumming nerves returning back to normal state. Molly at one point actually thought he had fallen asleep against her belly, at least until he spoke.

"I am not a virgin." Sherlock began. His voice strong in the silence of the room.

"I never assumed you were." Molly replied, hand carding through his curls. It was then that Sherlock realised that more if his self-conscious thoughts were bubbling to the surface.

He had started, so it was time to continue. "I am not a virgin, but I am not as experienced as recent tabloids have lead the United Kingdom to believe."Molly's hand stilled as she remembered the headlines that Janine, Sherlock's fake ex-fiancé had sold to whomever had the means to print. "I need you to tell me...what you want, what you need, what you crave. I need you to teach me how to please you Molly. Because all I ever want to do is please you."

Molly reached down, pulling Sherlock back up to lay at her side so that she could kiss his lips again. His words had the ability to overwhelm her in so many different ways, kissing him masked the fact that his humble admission had bought tears to her eyes.

Sherlock carefully learnt her chest as Molly kissed him. Running a now confident hand up and down her warm skin, down the valley between her breasts. Then around them. Then finally over them, brushing her peaked nipple sensually. Molly shivered.

Outside the room, sunlight continued to fill the sky, signs that the morning was creeping away from them. A logistical voice in both their minds reminded them that Sherlock would need to leave soon. To return to London, to get his mind out of bed and back to the case. Both participants squashed the thought for the selfish pleasure they were getting from their current situation.

Still softly tracing the lines of her breast, Sherlock's lips returned to her neck and lower, navigating the path his hand had drawn. Collarbone, chest plate, between her breasts, around them, and then finally, placing a tentative kiss to the peak, making Molly moan this time.

He was being guided by her reactions. Her gasps, shivers and moans as Sherlock kissed and then licked first one breast and then the other. One hand landed in his hair, the other gripping the sheets of his bed. If this was the pleasure she was receiving from his gentle exploration of her bare chest, what would it be like if he ever delved lower? Her cheeks stained at the idea.

His hands began to foreshadow that event, exploring lower as his mouth paid unwavering attention to her chest.. His fingertips tracing lines, hooking and releasing her pyjama bottoms teasingly when they were suddenly interrupted. Their foggy brains registered a vibrating phone somewhere in the room. Both foggy brains ignored the sound, returning their attention to each other.

Sherlock's fingers tucked under the elastic of her pyjama pants and began their downward journey when the insistent phone rang again, vibrating against the bedside table where Sherlock had deposited it the evening before. Molly tensed, the change in her body making Sherlock pause. Molly sighed, frustrated, because as much as she wanted to continue to ignore the phone, her traitorous mouth spoke the truth they both knew. "Answer it Sherlock."

He pressed his head to her stomach again, shaking his head like a temperamental toddler as he regained his breath.

"What if its John?" Molly asked, then her brain rushing ahead and jumping to conclusions, she sat up, making Sherlock shift from his resting spot. "Oh god, what if Moriarty went after Mary?"

Sherlock jumped from the bed and reached for his phone, her words lighting a fire in his belly which made him ignore everything, including his own level of arousal at the beautiful, half naked woman in his bed. He dialled the number that had tried twice to call him.

"Hello? Oh, Lestrade" he sighed a little, focusing so he wouldn't just throw the phone away and go back to Molly. "What? Exercising? No! Shut up, I do not sound out of breath!"

Molly smothered a giggle with the back of her hand. Sherlock shot a smile over his shoulder at her, then found himself momentarily distracted by the image that met him. Doctor Molly Hooper, disheveled, reclining seductively, still shirtless, against his pillows. He shook his head. "Ok, what? Say that again."

Sherlock stood and moved to his desk, putting space between them to help him establish some semblance focus. "I am about an hour away. Took Molly to my parents house." He pulled the phone away from his ear to check something, more than likely the time, and then returned the phone. "Yeah, I can make it."

Molly had never heard Sherlock sound so unenthusiastic about a case before. He had to leave. She reached for her discarded pyjama top as he finished his phone call, covering her nakedness, suddenly shy.

"Lestrade has a lead." Sherlock began, coming back to the bed and taking her hand in his. "Moriarty has been sighted in public. He is calling in anyone who may have seen something to take statements. I need to go."

Molly nodded. Sherlock continued. "It's still early. Why don't you go back to sleep?"

Never good with goodbyes, Molly nodded. Sherlock helped her snuggle down comfortably into his bed, burning the image of her kiss reddened lips and tussled hair into his mind palace.

"Will you call me when you can?" Molly asked, knowing she may not like the answer.

"When I can." he replied, kissing her forehead. "And I'll visit when I can. I don't intend on being away from you for very long."

Molly smiled, tears welling and being hardly kept at bay. Sherlock bend down to kiss her lips. "I wish we had more time this morning." She whispered.

"I'll make London safe for us" he promised. "Then we'll have all the time in the world"

0o0

Molly awoke a few hours later, surprised she had gotten back to sleep at all. The stress of the last few days and the denied pleasure if the morning had obviously taken a toll on her. The small clock on the bedside table read 10am, and Molly bolted upright.

She had overslept. During her stay with Mr and Mrs Holmes she had intended on being on her best behaviour, remembering everything her father used to say about first impressions and now, by having a lie in, she probably came across looking quite lazy.

Collecting her stuff, Molly quickly made her way down to the bathroom on the floor below Sherlock's room. After the quickest shower, Molly deposited her things back into the room and left in search of Sherlock's parents.

It wasn't difficult, as Molly literally bumped into Siger Holmes on the landing outside the bathroom and his mysterious office. "Oh I'm sorry, Mr Holmes."

"Quite alright, Doctor Hooper." The kind older man replied, his mouth twisting into a smile that was amazingly similar to Sherlock's. It was that smile, and a combination of many familiar mannerisms that made her feel immediately at ease with Sherlock's parents.

"Please" Molly smiled. "Call me Molly."

"Then I insist you call me Siger." Siger Holmes grinned, another smile that made her heart ache for Sherlock. Even though he had only been gone a few hours. "Did you sleep well?"

"Too well." Molly admitted, embarrassed. "I don't usually sleep this late."

"Oh don't let that weigh on your mind dear." Siger smiled. "William let us know what you have gone though in the last few days... Sorry, Sherlock." He corrected himself. "I think I am the only person who still calls him William, you know."

Molly was yet to hear the story as to why Sherlock favoured his middle name. She wouldn't have to wait long, however, as Siger launched into the story immediately. "He always saw William as such a 'common' name," he began. "Wanted an unusual name like Siger or Mycroft. I tried many times to explain to him that a uncommon name can sometimes be a curse. Explained to him the family heritage if the name William..." Siger seemed sad and thoughtful suddenly, possibly at the knowledge that his son had rejected the name he had given him.

Then without warning, he opened the door to his office and coaxed her in with a tilt of his head. Molly entered a space that was reminiscent of Baker Street during a case. Pin boards covered all the walls, clippings and pictures all over them. Stacks of papers, folders and books covered all available spaces. Siger moved to one large board and Molly knew she was to follow.

"Every second born son in the Holmes family line is named William." Siger said, tracing his finger on the massive Holmes family tree that was scrawled in neat handwriting on overlapping strips of paper. "Every first born son has their mother's maiden last name as their first." He tapped the family tree where Violet Mycroft-Jones had married Siger Holmes.

"That's an awesome tradition" Molly smiled, going back over the tree to see the varieties of names. The tradition dated back as far as the eye could see.

"Yes, unless you're this poor bloke." Siger grinned, pointing at the name 'Woodcock Holmes'. Molly and Siger giggled.

"What about girls in the family?" Molly asked, scanning the variety of names.

"No official rules." Siger said. "Emily seems to be a common name. At least of the last few generations. Also flower names. Rose. Lily. Violet, but I guess she doesn't count, as she married into the family."

"How many generations do you have recorded?" Molly asked. Siger's project was fascinating.

"21 generations" Siger said proudly. "Things are starting to get a little fuzzy now, as records are not as easy to access - even if your son has access to countless records."

"Why?" Molly asked. She hoped that it didn't sound insulting, and she could tell by the look on Siger's face that no offence was taken.

"I want my boys to know where they come from" Siger smiled. "Mycroft may be more powerful than the Queen and William is arguably the smartest man in the world." Siger pointed to a name which Molly thought was at random. "This William was a janitor. Kirby Holmes died on the Titanic, where he was a coal shoveler. There are reports of this William..." He searched back another few branches of the tree "was reportedly a resurrection man, I am sure in your line of work you know what that is. Emmiline Holmes, the boys' great, great, great, great, great grandmother died of diseases that she acquired through quite questionable lifestyle choices. Every terrible and unthinkable job in history is present in this tree. Generations of hard work to allow those boys the lives they have. It's a powerful message."

Molly stared at the massive wall, then around at all the collected documents. "I wish I had this for my family" she admitted softly. "Dad was a lecturer and Mum was a nurse, but other than that...I have no idea. No real family.

Siger squeezed her hand. "It's not that hard to get started. I would be happy to help you if you need a little project while you're staying with us... But until then, you can have our history."

Molly looked confused, a look that seemed to be gracing her features a lot recently. Siger smiled knowingly at the young woman. "Your name will be on this tree sooner or later Molly."

A/N2: A Resurrection Man made his living by digging up freshly buried corpses and selling them to medical training institutes so that student doctors could study anatomy. Pretty cool stuff, if I do say so myself.


	13. Chapter 13

Molly was honestly surprised by how much fun she had had on her first day with Sherlock's parents. After talking family histories with Siger, she had sought out Violet, who was out tending to her small vegetable garden just outside the kitchen door. While they worked they discussed life, loss a d the world of academia. Molly realised after an hour of pulling carrots that she found the action of tending to something living very soothing, and promised herself she would find a way to set up some sort of garden when she returned to Baker Street, even if it was just a windowsill herb garden.

After lunch she had some time to herself. Violet excused herself for a nap, stating old age made it impossible to get through a day without one, and Siger disappeared to the local golf course. Molly welcomed the alone time, however, taking the opportunity to outline a research paper that she intended on writing for publication later in the year.

When Siger returned, they watched Antiques Roadshow together. Violet made her way back down after the television show finished, and Molly helped her in the kitchen as she prepared a modest yet delicious dinner of Shepherd's pie. Conversation flowed, from Siger's golf handicap to a new quilt Violet was working on. Molly was enjoying every minute. It reminded her if time spent with her own father.

After the plates had been cleared, they retired to the living room to watch a spot of television before bed. (Well Siger watched television while Violet read in a comfy chair in the corner) Molly watched the episode of Midsummer Murders, laughing when Siger made the statement that it was refreshing to watch it without a consulting detective giving away the murderer and murder weapon within the first three minutes.

When Siger fell asleep in his chair, Violet snapped her book shut, woke him and said goodnight to Molly. Surprisingly, after a day of doing very little, Molly yawned and retired for the night also.

Back in Sherlock's room, she changed into her pyjamas. Being in Sherlock's room without him was strange, but it gave her a chance to explore. The bookshelf was overflowing with numerous texts, topics ranging from the natural flora and fauna of the area all the way through to the history of the French Revolution. Her hand skimmed the spines of the books, coming to rest on one that was written by a Dr V. A. Holmes. It was a heavy tome of mathematical study, and when she flipped it open, two things caught her attention. The first, an inscription 'To my gorgeous son William. Happy 10th Birthday. Love Mum.' The second thing was a Holmes family photograph, taken at Sherlock's tenth birthday. There were only three boys in the photograph. Sherlock's cheeky smile was instantly recognisable. Mycoft's red hair distinguishing him from the others, and a third child, who surprisingly looked similar to both Sherlock and Mycroft.

She returned the book to the shelf and continued on her exploratory path. In his top desk draw was a selection of miscellaneous items. Pens, test tubes, a deck of playing cards and an envelope of pink paper that had a slight smell of perfume lingering on it. Molly knew she shouldn't snoop, but her finger slipped inside and removed the folded paper in there carefully. From a girl named Caitlin, the letter outlined all the reasons why they would never be together romantically. The whole letter made Molly extremely angry, as this little girl, who dotted every one of her I's with obnoxious little hearts, listed the main reason, in capital letters, that Sherlock was too strange for words.

Molly returned the letter to the draw, seething with anger at this stupid little girl who hurt Sherlock, and turned her attention to a stack of papers on the desk. They looked to be high school essays. The science and maths ones he'd passed with flying colours, but the English ones were a little lower down the spectrum.

As she read, she discovered Sherlock's essays were laced with sarcasm and arguments that were obviously against what the teacher wanted to hear. His essays were dotted with teacher's comments of exasperation. Molly took the stack and made herself comfortable on Sherlock's bed. Halfway through Sherlock's advanced English literature paper about Shakespeare's Macbeth, her phone on the bedside table began ringing. She was shocked to see Sherlock's name on the caller ID

"Good evening Doctor Hooper" Sherlock's voice came through loud and clear from the other end.

"You make it sound like you're going to ask me if I need to update my phone's data package." Molly laughed, suddenly a little nervous. She had never flirted with Sherlock over the phone before. "So formal, with the Doctor Hooper thing."

"It's your name" Sherlock stated in his usual, cold voice. then he relaxed back inti his flirty tone. "Yes. I know I can call you Molly, and I do often, as you know, but sometimes I need to show that I am proud of your academic achievements."

"I know you we're aiming for sweet." Molly laughed, showing that no offence was taken. "but that was a tad condescending."

"It was not my intention to be." Sherlock said quickly, trying to erase any hurt his words had caused. When he heard her laughing, he relaxed instantly. "I am terrible at this 'being someone's boyfriend' caper."

"Boyfriend?" Molly repeated the word with a giggle.

There was a tense silence between them on the line, broken by Sherlock sounding quite small. "Aren't I?"

"Just the word." Molly responded. "I never thought I'd hear you describe yourself as a boyfriend, let alone my boyfriend."

"Well, deal with it, I guess." Sherlock tried to joke, but was sure he still sounded out of sorts. "How was your day?"

"Relaxing. I love it out here." Molly admitted, reclining back into the pillows. "I started a new article for publication, did some gardened with your mum." Molly picked up the essay she had been reading to glance at the title. "And now I've found a very interesting essay entitled 'Macbeth is a Wimp' written by a 12 year old Sherlock Holmes."

"I am sure you'll find that the actual title of that essay was 'evidence that Macbeth's fundamental character lacks fortitude..."

Molly laughed. "We'll, what ever its called, my father would have loved it."

"If only he had been my high school literature lecturer then." Sherlock grinned.

"So, what's happening with the case?" Molly questioned, throwing the stack of essays to the side. "What's this lead Lestrade got you out of bed for?"

"There was no lead" Sherlock said, clearly exasperated by the situation. "Three people 'thought' they saw a man resembling Jim on the tube. One arrived wearing a tin foil hat. The second and third were teenagers who admitted to lying in order to meet me. By the time we got through all that, it was too late to get the train back out to you."

"I know you won't be able to make it back all the time." Molly had to admit that she was taken aback by his statement. He had intended in coming back just to sleep, then leave again in the morning? "This case is important."

"I am not good with this stuff" Sherlock lamented suddenly, cutting Molly off.

"With what?"

"Feelings." Sherlock sighed, and Molly could hear the springs on Sherlock's bed squeak as he threw himself onto it. Molly could picture him, probably having discarded his suit jacket, laying across his bed. "How should I tell you that every moment I am not close to you is like I am being stabbed. How should I go about letting you know that my hand itches with a need to text you. Or call you, that would be better, as then I am hearing your voice. I want to tell you that every time I've relaxed my mind today it's been filled with you and your lips, the feel of your body distracting me into oblivion, but I don't think I have the words. Every idea I have it far too complicated, I just want some simple words to tell you that I miss you."

"You are not a simple man Sherlock." Molly whispered through tears she hadn't even realised she had shed. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks at his declaration, and she wiped them away quickly. "What you just said was perfect."

Molly could hear him smiling through the phone, pride at having done the right thing buzzing through his lanky frame. She wanted nothing more but to hold him, kiss him and tell him she loved him.

And she was about to when something shocked her. The sound of a violin in her ear. "Sherlock, how can you be playing the violin and on the phone...?" Realisation dawned on her and she sat upright in bed, heart beating fast. "Sherlock? Who's playing..."

"I have to go" was all Sherlock said and then suddenly the dial tone was in her ear.

"Be careful!" She whispered to an empty room.

0o0

Sherlock hung up abruptly, pocketing his phone and turning to leave. The music in the living room continued to make Sherlock cringe at the mistreatment of his instrument. Not since Mycroft had borrowed it once as a child had the violin taken such abuse.

It was no surprise to see Jim in the living room, holding the instrument with some grace and musical potential, but not managing to create a sound that even closely resembled music.

"Don't feel bad." Sherlock began smoothly. "It's a difficult instrument to learn."

Jim lowered the violin, retuning it to the stand on the detective's desk. "The piano is more my forte."

As Sherlock stepped further into the living room, Jim made his way to be seated in front of the fire place. The criminal stared pensively at the empty grate before beginning. "I am sure you're growing tired."

Sherlock straightened slightly, reacting to the tone that Jim was using. Moriarty actually sounded human, his tone carrying that tiredness that he was discussing. "Tired?"

"Of these games!" Jim sighed dramatically. "I trick you, you trick me, we both get away with it, we meet on the top of Bart's and fake suicide at each other. Aren't you tired of this yet?"

"No." Sherlock smiled, Moriarty laughed.

"Good. Me neither" Jim replied, making Sherlock laugh too, and for a few seconds, the two men could have been anyone else, friends, sharing a joke. "I see you send Molly away."

"I care about her safety" was all Sherlock said as he sat in John's chair to face the other man.

"That's right" Jim grinned, clapping his hands together joyously. "I hear congratulations are in order for the happy couple. Does this now mean I have to change your nickname? No longer 'the virgin'?"

Sherlock reclined in what he hoped was a flippant way. He didn't want to get to far into a conversation about Molly, as hiding his emotions in relation to her was sometimes a challenge.

"Pleasantries bore me Jim" Sherlock said instead. "As much as they bore you. Lets just get on with this."

"Indeed" Jim agreed, leaning forward in his seat. "I intend on making you pay for what you did to me."

Sherlock mirrored his adversary's stance. "And what is that exactly?"

"You humiliated me."

"See that's where I don't follow" Sherlock began, "How exactly did I 'humiliate' you?"

"All my hard work, unravelled in the public eye." Jim sighed. "You took all I had worked so hard to create. I discredited you and still, posthumourously, you foiled me."

Sherlock dismissed Jim with a playful swap of his hand "That's not entirely me... Scotland Yard"

"Working with your findings and case notes." Jim growled, obvious rage bubbling to the surface of his otherwise cool exterior. "Anonymous tips?"

"Why would I tip them off when I thought you were dead." Came Sherlock's calm reply.

"Unfinished symphonies Sherlock" Jim tapped his temple as he stood, crossing to the mantelpiece so he could make funny faces in the mirror there. "I wasn't enough to discredit me. You wanted to destroy me."

"And you wanted to do what to me?" Sherlock asked, resting his feet on his chair that had been vacated by the criminal. "You got your way. The world thought I was a fake. They believed in the existence of Richard Brook."

"My finest work." Anyone could hear the self admiration in his voice as he remembered the Richard Brook proceedings. Sherlock stored that pride in his mind palace, knowing it would be important at some point. "Such a shame Richie had to die. But it was his idea... How could I refuse?"

This fact made Sherlock look up. Ritchie? There actually was a Richard Brook? It was only then that Sherlock realised how little he knew about the case. How may questions he still was dying to have answered. "Which one of your henchman played the part of 'Ritchie' in your little play?"

"Played the part?" Jim grinned, everything clicking into place. "Are you suggesting that you still don't know what happened up there?"

No point lying. "The puzzle is missing pieces"

"Excellent." Jim laughed, clapping his hands again. "Fantastic." He turned to look at himself in the mirror once again. "this is better than I ever imagined." Jim fished into his pocket, pulling out his phone. The criminal mastermind flicked through a few photographs before handing the phone to Sherlock. "Mother was so upset when I told her..."

The image that graced the large screen cleared up a number if questions. Jim Moriarty and a second man, same build, same facial features. In fact, the two men had a very close resemblance. "Brother?"

"You're not the only one with useful family members." Jim smiled, taking his phone back and shoving it into his pockets. "Although Ritchie never got me off of a murder charge the way your brother did for you."

His mind was reeling. Sherlock was desperate for more information. Details about Richard Moriarty (was that even his name?) and his involvement in the Richenbach Fall. After a few seconds of pondering, he realised he was being spoken to, and looked up at Jim.

"So where to next?" The criminal was asking. "This public humiliation you dealt me will not go unpunished."

"Then punish me." Sherlock stood, standing chest to chest with the other man "but I want your word Moriarty, that you'll punish me, and not someone that I care about."

"Going after John is predictable and boring. That wife of his is surprisingly scary for a woman of her stature. Greg Lestrade is dating your brother, who has the whole force of the commonwealth behind him. Mrs Hudson is old and boring. The only person I would attack is Molly, but weirdly lately just the thought of her makes my skin crawl." He picked an imaginary bit of fluff off of Sherlock's shoulder. "They are all safe."

"So how do we settle this?"

"One final game." Moriarty grinned, stepping away from Sherlock and making his way to the door, pausing only to yell back over his shoulder. "Winner takes all."


	14. Chapter 14

Richard Charles Moriarty was the third born child of Maria and Peter Moriarty. Deceased 16th of June. Survived by mother Maria, sister Sarah and twin brother James.

There is was, in black ink before him, the obituary of Richard Moriarty. Printed in at least four newspapers. The date of the fall was the date if death. Survived by twin brother James.

Sherlock pulled his laptop closer to him and remotely logged into Mycroft's files. Honestly, if Mycroft didn't want him to access the files, he should really change the password. The search bar of all of the commonwealth's records system flashed before him, and he typed in Richard's name. A tiny window opened, telling him that due to the multiple files related to the Moriarty case, it would take a minute or so. Sherlock sighed, patience was never his strong point.

When the download was finished, he double clicked on the first available link. The first result was a birth certificate. Confirmation that the men in question were in fact twins. The next official document related to Richard Moriarty was a marriage certificate. Richard Moriarty had a wife. Corrine Moriarty nee Myers. Deceased, if the accompanying death certificate was to be believed.

Sherlock dug deeper. Richard, preferred name Rich, was a lawyer. Quite a high powered criminal one who suddenly and without warning stopped working three and a half years ago. He had told his work colleagues that it was to get over Corrine, but that was a month before Jim's introduction to Sherlock's world.

Sherlock collapsed back into his sofa chair, taking on his patented thinking pose. A criminal lawyer turned possible criminal? It was almost poetic.

But Sherlock didn't have any proof that Richard was actually a criminal. All he had was Moriarty's word that Rich was the ideas behind the gunshot on top of Bart's. Had he volunteered? Or had he been coerced by his very persuasive brother.

That was, of course, if you were to believe that Jim and Richard hadn't been working together as partners from the very beginning. Was it possible? There had been many times when Moriarty's knowledge of a situation made it seem like he was in two places at once. How many times had he thought he was facing Jim when in fact he had been talking to Rich? Had they even worked that way. Was one the brains and the other the brawn? We're they really as interchangeable as Sherlock was thinking?

He returned to his computer and to a death report of Richard Moriarty. Cause of death: self administered gunshot wound to the head. Entry through the mouth, exit through the skull. He read the detailed report filed by one Doctor Molly Hooper. She was thorough, his Dr. Hooper.

There were no medical records for Jim Moriarty, there never had been. It had been one of the first things the consulting criminal had done, removing himself as much as possible from the public record. This meant that unfortunately Sherlock couldn't compare the two men's physical features to determine which Moriarty was which. The new information Sherlock had to work with had spawned numerous theories in his mind, but the lack of substantial evidence pointing to any one as the answer was beginning to drive him mad.

Sherlock was sure it had been Jim that had died that day, not Rich. But honestly, at this point, Sherlock had no way of telling the pair apart. Could it be possible that Jim was Rich and Rich was Jim so often that they had fooled him, along with the rest of the world?

He couldn't tell. But maybe there was someone who could.

The ringing in his ear built a sense of dread in his gut, waiting patiently for the answer he wasn't sure he wanted to hear.

"Hello?" Molly mumbled, obviously having been woken by the ringing phone. Sherlock looked at the small clock in the mantle, 1am, he really should have checked that before calling.

"Molly." Sherlock's serious tone cut all pleasantries between them. "Did you sleep with Moriarty?"

The silence that followed was tangibly thick and with every moment that passed, Sherlock's heartbeat increased. His mouth went dry and he had to swallow against the uncomfortable sensation, he needed her answer for the case, to help prove his theory, but there was also a large part of him that was happy not knowing.

"Molly?" He almost begged after almost a minute of silence.

"No." Molly whispered finally, regaining herself after the shock of the question. She assumed they'd have to discuss past lovers at some point, but had no idea it would be this soon into the proceedings. "We almost did..."

"Did you see him naked?" Sherlock asked, sitting forward in his chair, gripping his phone as though it was all that could save him.

"Not naked." Molly replied, her voice small, humiliation evident. "Shirtless."

"Was he shirtless, or were you?" Sherlock asked, his voice making him sound more comfortable with the conversation then he actually was.

Molly paused awkwardly before admitting. "We both were."

"What do you remember? Did he have any distinguishing marks? Tattoos? Scars?" Sherlock questioned, trying to keep the conversation going to avoid the fact that Jim had been shirtless with his Molly, a parallel to the situation he had found himself in not even 20 hours ago.

"Umm" Molly took a second to think before beginning. Her memory was hazy about the details if her short time as Moriarty's girlfriend. "An appendix scar, I think."

"Good" Sherlock smiled triumphantly, comparing notes with the ones on his screen. "Anything else you can remember? Birthmarks? tattoos?"

"It was dark Sherlock, the room was only lit by..." Realising what she was saying and who she was saying it too, she finished the sentence weakly "candles."

All thoughts of the case left him as a laugh bubbled to the surface. "Candles, really?"

"Oh shut up." Molly said quickly. Not only had Sherlock called her in the middle of the night to ask unusual and evasive questions, now he was laughing at her dating history. "I think he was going for romance."

"Romance?" Sherlock was now actually laughing. The idea of a cold, callous criminal mastermind going shopping for candles in an attempt to be romantic was amazingly hilarious to him. "And did that work, the romance?"

"At the time it did, obviously" Molly snapped. Sherlock was notoriously hard to manage when he was like this, mind moving at a million miles an hour and conversation swaying from point to point. The true frustration of the whole matter, however, was the subtext that Sherlock didn't think that she was deserving of romantic behaviour. "We can't all be easy bridesmaids." She whispered under her breath.

Sherlock's laugh tapered off and an awkwardness settled between them again. "I need this information for a case Molly. It has recently come to my attention that Jim had a twin."

"The old identical twin switcheroo." Molly sat up in bed, genuinely shocked at Sherlock's words. "Oh god, that's like a bad movie."

"I am trying to determine if I, and by proxy, you, have been dealing with the same Jim the whole time, or if either if us have crossed paths with Richard Moriarty."

Molly paused, suddenly all of his unusual questioning making a little bit more sense. "The appendix scar is all I can remember. It was dark and I wasn't paying attention to other distinguishing features."

"The post mortem you did on Jim, or Richard, suggests that the body that died on the roof of Bart's also had an appendix scar." Sherlock began his deductions.

"But Sherlock, all appendix operations of the time resulted in uniform scar sizes, shapes and positions" Molly interrupted him. She was sure that he knew that, but she felt confident that she knew something that he hadn't thought of. "Most of the population over the age of 25 has a scar in that same area. Mary has one. So does Greg."

"How do you know Greg has an appendix scar?" Sherlock suddenly seemed outraged. Molly couldn't help but smile to herself.

"The point I am making is that both of the Moriarty twins..."

"How do you know about Greg's scar?" Sherlock asked firmly, cutting off her tactic to divert him back to the Moriarty case.

"You're not concerned that I've seen a scar on Mary?" Molly teased, the tension from earlier in the conversation evaporating as she slowly gained the upper hand. "I am a doctor Sherlock. He came into the morgue to see a body, complaining of rib pain after a violent arrest. I was concerned he may have broken it and was too stubborn to let him leave without giving him a once over."

Sherlock relaxed, satisfied with the answer and finally able to register what Molly had said. "So you think both of them had the same scar?"

"Possible." Molly admitted. "But whether or not you believe it is probable is another thing."

Sherlock shocked Molly with the next question out of his mouth. "Why didn't you sleep with him? Moriarty, I mean."

The only thing more shocking than Sherlock's question was Molly's answer. "He wasn't you." Sherlock was so shocked by the sincerity of the statement that he almost didn't hear the next part. "Besides, he didn't seem very into me."

It took a few minutes for those words to register also. "What! Why?"

"I don't know." Molly sounded small all of a sudden, as though the memory she was about to recall was a particularly bad one. "He started out all keen, then when things escalated he just... Stopped. Got real quiet, pensive. Told me he needed time."

"Time?" Sherlock's repeated the word to feel its gravity. How could someone need time when faced with a half naked Molly Hooper.

"Yeah, then after that, every time I made an advance, he would make up some excuse to leave, as though I was some disgusting monster or something."

"He's the disgusting monster." Sherlock reminded her firmly. "I hope you didn't take it personally, him ignoring you like that, I for one am very happy he needed time..."

"It was a pretty rough time for me, self esteem wise." Molly cut him off. "You'll remember a week later I found out he was a pyschopath. I was the girl who dated the pyschopath. That's not an easy thing to live down. Then, only a few months after that, a certain consulting detective told me a Christmas gift was an over compensation for the size of my mouth and breasts..."

"Oh don't listen to that bastard, he didn't know what he was talking about." Sherlock muttered, embarrassed by his past behaviour. The conversation had taken a turn that he didn't want, leaving him to try and undo the bad memories he had pulled to the surface for her. "I love your mouth and breasts."

Molly giggled. His weak flirtation had helped.

"So, try to disconnect the personal side..." Sherlock began thinking through the case, knowing that further discussion of past relationships would probably be the wrong path to travel. "Why would a man, when faced with a beautiful half naked woman, need time?"

"Well, he could have been scared?" Molly began the long distance brainstorm. Sherlock nodded, adding the mental excuse to a list in his mind.

"He could have been hiding something" Sherlock suggested.

"Like?"

He couldn't help himself. "Maybe he was gay."

"Still waiting on an apology for that deduction too." Molly muttered carefully, but there was a soft playful tone to her voice also. "Performance anxiety?"

"Possible. Or an actual physical inability to perform." Sherlock said. Molly nodded. This is what it had felt like that day that she had helped Sherlock with his cases. She felt important and useful.

"Recent relationship break up." Molly began, continuing with an explanation when Sherlock made a sound suggesting that he didn't quite understand the point she was making. "You know, like when you're not quite ready to move on after a break up because you still have feelings for your ex?"

"Another experience I am not quite familiar with." Sherlock admitted, then was struck by a bolt of lightning. "Would this idea apply to a widower. This inability to move on after the death of a loved one?"

"Oh. Of course! It would probably be a stronger emotion in someone in that situation" Molly filled in. "Why? Is our newest Moriarty a widower?"

"Yes. Wife Corrine died only about 18 months before the fall" Sherlock filled in. "Before that, Richard was a fine, upstanding citizen."

"Only 18 months!" Molly repeated. "I would bet my meagre life savings that the man I was with that night was Richard then. A loss that recent would explain a lot."

"So it is possible that the twins were interchangeable" Sherlock sighed. He knew it wasn't concrete evidence, but it was a start for his investigations. "But the question is, which Moriarty died that day, and which Moriarty are we still living with?"

"What was Corrine Moriarty's cause of death?" Molly asked suddenly.

Sherlock reached for his laptop again, scrolling though the relevant documents. "Suicide. Pills. Pre-existing battles with depression were a contributing factor."

Molly was pensive for a second. "Who was the pathologist?"

"Considering the lack of detail in the death certificate and the autopsy report, probably one of the lab jockeys over at Public..." Sherlock began, making Molly smile at the reference to the rival hospital in the area. "Wait... This can't be right?"

"What?"

"Molly." Sherlock swallowed nervously. "You did Corrine's autopsy."


	15. Chapter 15

"In need an office and access to all of the files pertaining to Moriarty."

"Good morning to you too, Sherlock." Greg Lestrade joked, standing up from his desk and eyeing the clearly agitated detective at his door. After years of dealing with the eccentric yet brilliant man, he was used to these sudden demanding meetings. "I take it you have a new lead?"

Sherlock only gestured to a stack of papers in a folder under his arm. "Hurry up with getting me a room."

"You usually work from home." Greg reminded him, his tone clearly showing that he wished the consulting detective was working from home again today.

"Not exactly the most secure location any more." Sherlock replied cryptically, taking his phone from his pocket and shooting off a quick text instead of gracing Greg with actual eye contact. Greg sighed and got on the phone to organise a workspace for Sherlock.

John, I am going to need you today if you're not busy -SH

"So what's the big investigation" Lestrade queried as he hung up the phone, gesturing at the folder. Sherlock placed it on the corner of the desk and took the first document from the stack.

"I need evidence that this is a falsified pathology report" Sherlock informed him.

"That's it?"

"Not, that's not it!" Sherlock snapped, slamming the paper back into the file. "I also have a few different theories to work on."

Greg's phone dinged and he started out of his office, gesturing at Sherlock to follow. "You know I don't like vagueness."

"And yet you continue to work for Scotland Yard." Sherlock muttered, entering the room Greg indicated. Lestrade followed him in.

"Are you going to let me in on these theories?" He asked.

"No." Sherlock replied instantly. "An underdeveloped theory is detrimental to a low level thinker."

"Thanks very much." Greg pulled up a chair beside where Sherlock had spread his papers.

Sherlock sighed. "Jim Moriarty had a twin, I am trying to determine if they were an interchangeable entity."

Greg looked confused, picking up one of the papers in front of him. "But what does thus have to do with a police report."

"A coroner's report." He snatched the paper between his thumb and finger, out of his grasp. "Allegedly filed by Molly."

"Allegedly?" Sherlock sighed his frustrated, exasperated sigh and leant forward, the way he did when explaining to the dumb and insolent. "I really don't think Molly was the one who filed this report"

"Because I didn't."

All eyes in the room whipped to the confident voice at the door. Molly stood, leaning against the doorframe, her overnight bag over her shoulder. She smiled at Greg, but that smile died on her lips as her gaze reached Sherlock. His glare was dangerous, like he was set to attack her. It was confusing and unnerving, and Molly thought it best to ignore it.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock snapped, his tone betraying his mood. He was angry. Something Molly had only briefly anticipated. She had hoped that her boyfriend would be at least a little happy to see her. His hand crunched the nearest piece of paper.

"I've come to help." Molly replied cautiously.

"You've come to... help?" The words spat like acid from his lips.

"I hate it when you use that tone Sherlock." Molly sighed, trying and failing in an attempt to not let his mood get to her,"I am more than capable of helping you, especially considering this is my area of expertise and you are currently working to identify the author of 'my' report."

Greg cut through the palpable tension with a question that drew attention back to the case. "What makes you so sure you didn't?"

"I keep a list of every person I've ever done an autopsy on." Molly responded as she pulled a book out of her bag. It was a small leather bound journal, and when Molly flipped through it, it was filled with columns of names. "Morbid, I know, but I ..."

"Sentiment, continue." Sherlock snapped. Molly and Greg both glared at him, making him move moodily to the corner of the small interrogation room.

"Corrine Moriarty is not in here." Molly replied, flipping through a few pages, her finger running down to a date. Greg took the book to look at the list. "Since becoming a doctor I've listed every patient I've ever dealt with..."

"Even the ones you killed?"

"Get out." Molly growled, her voice firm and controlled like the day she had slapped him. Sherlock had hit a nerve. A bundle of raw nerves actually. "If you're going to be a sulky little bitch over in the corner, you can get out!"

Sherlock recoiled but stayed put. Greg went wide eyed at the way the couple were talking to each other.

"Are these the case files from all of the Moriarty cases?" Molly asked calmly, pointing to Sherlock's stack of papers. "May I?"

Greg handed them to her. "Quite refreshing to be asked permission." Molly reached for a pen and took her falsified report, pausing on the first page.

Within the initial scan, he turned to Sherlock, who was still staring daggers at the side of her head. "Most observant man in the world and you didn't notice that this isn't even my signature?"

"Oh yeah." Greg looked over her shoulder, partially to see what she was referring to, but mainly in an attempt to stop the pair from killing one another.

"Look at the way you loop the 'L's in Molly. Imposter Molly didn't even try."

Sherlock snatched the report in a sudden pounce. "The scrawl and smudge pattern means we are looking for a left handed male, aged 30-40 who had broken his pinky finger at least once in his life." He tossed the paper back on the table and returned to his sulk corner.

"And he doesn't loop his 'L's" Greg added, making Molly smile. She flipped the page on both reports. Molly got straight into work, scribbling and making notes all over the fake report. After ten minutes she gasped excitedly.

"What?"

"I have a theory!" Molly announced, then looked pensive for a moment. "How hard will it be to exhume a body?"

0o0

Molly paused as she stepped off of the elevator directly across from the doors of the New Scotland Yard cafeteria. A sudden chill shook her body. Last time she has been on the other side of those doors, Moriarty had stabbed her and left her for dead.

It was only three weeks ago, her wound was still raw, as were the emotions. It was just a room, but the tremor in her hand surprised her. She had faced death so many times but never had to face her own mortality. Molly had always considered herself safe, locked up in her lab, that was until she unknowingly dated a a psychopath (while being in love with another) and started a spiral effect into the dark criminal underworld.

"You could have asked me if you wanted something to eat."

Molly tensed momentarily at the familiar voice by her side. Sherlock, stiff with close held anger, stood still, waiting for her response.

"I was under the impression you weren't talking to me" Molly replied, eyes not leaving the cafeteria door. She couldn't look at him. For the first time in her life, she didn't want to look at Sherlock Holmes. "For whatever reason."

Sherlock was about to explode again, but took in his surroundings, opting to stay quiet. "For whatever reason! Molly, it's not safe!"

Molly looked exasperated. "I am safest when I am with you."

Sherlock stepped back, body tense, still trying to keep his emotional response in check. "I can't be looking after you and after him at the same time."

"Looking after?" the words had set off Molly's anger. Were they really going to be having this discussion about her ability again? It seemed that she was always justifying her worth to him, and it was beginning to get frustrating.

"You know I didn't mean it that way!" Sherlock's voice rose against his best attempts. A passer by gave them a lingering look. Sherlock glared at him, taking Molly by the arm and leading her to a small alcove. "I just want to know you are safe."

"You'll know I am safe when I am by your side." Molly repeated, then softened slightly. She could appreciate where he was coming from, that her safety was paramount to him and she guessed she could forgive him. He was a man who despite his outward appearance was driven by his emotions. Emotions that he bottled up until they punched out of him violently. "You're doing it again"

Sherlock still looked put out while confusion crossed his brow. "Doing what?"

Molly reached up, cupping his cheek in her hand. "Hiding your emotions."

"I don't have any." Sherlock replied. Molly rolled her eyes. "Come on Sherlock, it's me you're talking to."

"And this is me you are talking to Molly." he replied, calming as he realised that their fight was coming to end. His love of fighting with Molly was in the same range as talking about his emotions, but the hand in his cheek was keeping him calm, "It is not safe and I am trying to make it safe."

"I am only trying to help." She repeated the fact. "You need a doctor on this one."

"I've texted John." Sherlock dismissed.

Molly let out a respectful laugh. "And when was the last time he did a post mortem?" Sherlock surprisingly found himself smiling. As much as it played against his case, Molly's point did ring true. "Don't you trust me?"

"I trust you." The suggestion that he didn't trust her stung him to to bone. How could she possibly question his trust of her, he had let her throw him off a building. He had taken her into his life, home and heart more than anyone else in his existence. How could she possibly believe he didn't trust her. "I just don't want to see you hurt."

"Let me help on this medical part then." Molly began, dropping her hand from his check and resting gently on his bicep. Sherlock glanced at the contact, unusual but comforting. "I'll stay in your sight at all times and as soon as I've investigated my theory, you can put me back on the train yourself."

"Train! You took the train down?" He growled, waves of anger crashing over him again. "Alone?"

"Stop." Molly stood on her toes and pulled his neck down so that his forehead was pressed against hers. "I know you are not happy with me, but I am putting my stubborn foot down." When she got no reply, Molly pulled away slightly. Sherlock had his eyes clamped tight, obviously working through his thoughts. "Sherlock?"

"Alright." he sighed, finally coming to the conclusion that the plan, while not ideal, was acceptable. Overwhelmed by the realisation, Sherlock held out his arms and went to pull her into an embrace.

"Nope. We're not done." Molly stated, a hand flat on his chest, showing surprising strength, she held back his advance. Sherlock dropped his hands to his sides. "I am still cranky at you."

Confusion, an emotion he was unfortunately becoming all too accustomed to, crossed his face. Not removing her hand from his chest, Molly continued. "You've made two allusions to reasons why I made the career choices I did. Due to the obvious nature of today's statement, I am assuming you have deduced that when I was a medical intern I had a patient die in my care."

He gaped. "Molly, I..."

Molly pulled her hand back before pressing it lightly to its position on his chest, reminding Sherlock that the had floor now and that he was to listen. "That's something I carry with me daily. It in no way degrades me as a doctor, as most doctors will lose a patient at some point in their career. But it did heavily influence my choice to become a pathologist." She paused, stared deeply into his eyes and said. "You, however, are not to mention it, understand."

"Molly?"

"Say you understand Sherlock!" She repeated strongly. "That unless I bring it up with you, you won't discuss the incident."

"Molly"

"Sherlock! You have no idea what it is like to be responsible for the death of a human being." She snapped, then suddenly realised her words. Flashing back to that day in Baker Street. The word 'murderer' hanging heavily in the room. Molly realised in that second that she didn't know about that side of Sherlock. She didn't care, but she didn't know. Molly looked away. "I am sorry."

"I won't ever mention it." he mumbled.

"I am sorry." Molly repeated, searching his eyes for what he was feeling. No ideas were provided.

"I won't mention it again, I promise." Sherlock repeated sincerely, finally enveloping her into a hug.

Molly knew not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so replied with a soft "Thank you" and her arms around him, returning his hug.

They stood like that for a few minutes before Sherlock said "Successful first fight?" Molly laughed and held him tighter. No one ever said it would be easy dating Sherlock Holmes.

After a gentle kiss on her hair, Sherlock pulled back, not enough to release her, but enough to see her face. Molly turned her gaze up to him. "What is this theory of yours?"

Molly explained her secret theory quickly, Sherlock's smile growing with each word. When she concluded (slightly out of breath at her enthusiasm) she looked to Sherlock for his thoughts, expecting him to shoot holes in it immediately.

"Oh, that's very clever." Sherlock praised, holding her tighter to him and kissing her cheek, hardly holding his grin. "And you figured it out, my clever girl."

"It's just a theory." She smiled shyly. Sherlock looked shocked at her dismissal.

"But it makes so much sense!"

"What?" She had caught a glint in his eye that was unusually dangerous while still being filled with admiration. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

Sherlock leant forward, lips mere millimetres from her ear when he admitted. "You are so sexy."

"Sherlock!" She giggled, pulling away slightly.

"What, you know I've fallen for your mind as much as your body." He whispered, hand gravitating to her hair. A position that had only one outcome.

Molly licked her lips quickly, preparing for the oncoming kiss. Sherlock stepped her back against the wall of the alcove, giving no space between the two of them as his lips attacked hers hungrily. His new drug of choice was Molly Hooper, his new addiction in the form of this beautiful woman. An addiction he had no intention of ever detoxing from.

"That's where you two got to...oh god!" Greg approached, unwatching, pausing and covering his face as he saw the pathologist and detective wrapped in an almost indecent embrace. Molly and Sherlock separated from the lips, but stayed close. Greg, still not looking at them, stuttered out a quick "Corrine's body is in your lab at Bart's waiting for you." And turned to leave.

Molly grinned, took him by the hand, and pulled him towards the elevator.

0o0

As John entered Molly's lab in St Bart's, the pathologist in question, whose eye was permanently attached to her microscope, held out her hand expectantly.

When after a few seconds nothing was placed in it, she wriggled her fingers a few times.

"You've been dating him a week." John began, making Molly look up in surprise. "You don't need to start acting like him."

"Sorry John," Molly blushed. "I sent Sherlock for some coffee and a few files."

"You sent Sherlock..." John tested the weight of the words in his mouth, smiling oddly to himself. "Molly Hooper, have you domesticated Sherlock Holmes?"

Molly shrugged and went back to her microscope, scribbling furiously at her notes page. John made himself at home, pulling up a chair and flipping through a few old Moriarty case files. Sherlock came in a few minutes later, balancing three coffees on top of a pile of folders. He handed one to John before placing the other beside the microscope.

"Sherlock, can you check my calculations here?" Molly asked, stepping away and pulling him closer to the machine in question. "Need to double check the chemistry."

Sherlock stepped up to the microscope but did not release her hand. He held her hand as he investigated the slide (a fact that did not go unnoticed by John), then looked up, grinning foolishly.

"Is it?" Molly asked tentatively.

"It is" he confirmed, single handedly pulling her notes to him. "You were right."

"Alright lovebirds." John interrupted. "Break it down for someone who doesn't talk code."

"Corrine Moriarty was killed." Sherlock began. "By the same chemical compound that killed Sir Jeffery Patterson, Jimmy and Jennifer Wilson"

"Jennifer..." The name brought all of his memories of meeting Sherlock to the front of his mind. "Study in Pink Jennifer Wilson?"

"The very same." Sherlock confirmed. "Making Corrine the first victim of Jeff Hope, the murdering cabbie."

"And by association, the first known victim of the Moriarty Twins." Sherlock and Molly stood, looking pleased with themselves, waiting for a reaction from John. The reaction they got, however, made them realise they hadn't filled John in on all of the intricate details.

"Moriarty Twins?"


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: I feel the need to apologise in advance. This is as smutty as any of my fics has ever gotten, and I am sorry if it is totally off. I am seeing the rating change of this fic as a challenge to become a better writer, but I've also discovered that maybe I am just not very sexy :)

0o0

"I miss my lab," Molly said as she climbed the stairs and entered 221b Baker Street. "But I haven't been missing the smell it leaves on your skin."

"I don't mind it." Sherlock said sincerely, following her through the front door. It was the truth, he didn't mind that sometimes Molly spelt like death and chemicals. Those were smells he found oddly comfortable. "But I do like that lemony stuff you wash with."

Molly grinned, lemon helped cut the smell of the chemicals that lingered on her. The smell had been her signature scent (and the occasional spritz of Chanel no. 5) since she had become a pathologist. She sighed. After all of the excitement of the day, between the train ride into London, the fighting and the investigating, she was more than ready to collapse onto the couch in front of the telly. First she dropped her bag, yawning and stretching her arms over her head. Sherlock watched the languid action, smiling to himself as Molly's cardigan pulled up, revealing a slither of skin to his ever-observant eyes.

"Sherlock?"

He jumped, caught watching her, realising that Molly had asked him something. "Sorry. What?"

"I said that I am going to go and have a quick shower, and you should order us some dinner." Molly repeated with a smirk as she tugged her cardigan back into place.

Sherlock nodded, but found himself reaching for her as she passed him to walk down the hall. Sherlock pulled her to his chest and wrapped a hand into her hair, dragging her mouth to his. Molly kissed him back willingly, hands gripping his lapels. She had no choice but to stand on her toes to kiss him with the intensity he was demanding.

When they broke apart, both were panting.

"I am going to take a shower." Molly repeated in a hushed tone, her hand reaching behind her to push open the bathroom door. With a confidence that she didn't even know she was capable of, she stepped back, pulling the detective with her. "Care to join me?"

Sherlock hesitated only momentarily at the thought of showering with Molly, and only because he couldn't remember if he had put the toilet seat down that morning.

Inside the bathroom, Molly pulled his mouth back down to hers almost instantly, rendering his concern redundant.

Sherlock returned one hand back to her hair, the other coming to rest on her lower back, pulling her flush against him as he continued to devour her mouth. They stayed this way for a few minutes, kisses swinging from intense to soft and then back again.

Sherlock nudged her cardigan off of her shoulders and made quick work of her buttons. Molly did the same with his coat, and it was proof just how much he adored her when he realised he didn't stop to pick up his suit jacket off of the floor.

Molly paused, hands on his belt. They had been shirtless together, but pantless, naked, was unchartered territory. She was suddenly nervous for a reason she couldn't explain. She was about to disrobe, strip naked in front of Sherlock Holmes. A super observant man who despite his current affection for her had previously made a habit of pointing out her faults.

"Molly?" Sherlock whispered, voice deep with lust. Molly looked into his blue green eyes, stormy with desire, and waited for her nerves to dissolve. She knew they would eventually, because even now her own desire to touch and be touched was bubbling to the surface. "If you don't want to do this...?"

Molly kissed him, another soft, heart aching kiss, then slowly began to undo his belt. "I want this, you, more than anything."

Sherlock rested his hands in hers just before she completely undid the belt. "I want you too." He replied. "But if its too fast, to much..."

"I just needed time for it all to register. I've waited so long for you to come to your senses Sherlock." Molly replied playfully.

"I am not going to say anything disrespectful about your body." He told her after quickly deducing her insecurities. "You are by far the most beautiful woman..." Molly stopped him by removing his belt and dropping it to the tiled floor with a clang. He captured her hands in his to stop her, forcing her to stare deep into his eyes. "I mean it though...if you need time."

"I invited you in here, didn't I?" Molly asked rhetorically. "Now shut up and kiss me."

Sherlock took orders well, dropping to kiss her as her fingers toyed the button at his waist through the fabric. The fly slid down with a metallic creak, and then Sherlock stood, clad only in his boxers before her, their front already tented with arousal. Sensing her continued (but lessened) hesitation, Sherlock kissed her softly, suggesting "I'll turn on the water, you get undressed."

"I...undressed...but you?"

He kissed her gently again in an attempt to put her further at ease. "There will be plenty if times for me to undress you, my dear."

She waited until he had stepped around her and pulled back the shower curtain before her trembling hands moved to her own waistband. When she heard the water running, Molly slipped out if her trousers and pants. She turned, the sight of Sherlock's grey boxers on the floor beside the tub making her heart pound.

The sighted that greeted her behind the curtain was breathtaking. Sherlock stood, naked, his back to her, under the spray of the shower head. She took a second to take it all in. She was running out of words to describe the glorious nature of his beauty.

He glanced over his shoulder then turned fractionally, not enough to reveal his front to her, but enough to hold out his hand, inviting her to take the last step in. Within seconds, they were both in the shower.

Slowly and calmly Sherlock turned, standing face-to-face with the object of his desire, but his eyes stayed on her face in a very gentlemanly fashion. Molly's gaze wandered, however, following the path of a bead of water down his chest, over his hip and down his strong, muscular thighs. Inescapable, her gaze lingered on his manhood, bringing a flush of anticipation to her cheeks.

"Now I am the one worried about your thoughts on my body." Sherlock rumbled, voice thick with lust and steam.

Molly snapped her head up. "You are beautiful."

"Likewise" was all Sherlock managed to say before he pulled her to his chest and stepped both of them back into the water. His lips attacked hers furiously, hands clinging to her naked hips.

Molly's long hair was instantly soaked, falling in long messes over her shoulders. His hands rose to collect it, pulling it over her shoulders and covering her breasts in a style reminiscent of some renaissance art piece. Sherlock smirked to himself and the playful nature of his action made Molly smile, finally relaxed in her nudity.

As Sherlock continued to toy with the wet strands of her hair, she began a slow exploration of his body. Sherlock was deceptively muscular and Molly soon realised it was one of her favourite things to feel him tighten and flex under her hands. She spent minutes running palms and fingertips over his exposed skin, cataloging his every breath and whimper, discovering the body of her lover carefully. (Sherlock was surprisingly ticklish on his left ribs, she noticed.)

Sherlock stopped playing with Molly's hair, a glint in his eye that made Molly quizzical. She was about to question him when suddenly, he pulled her to him, into his chest, and wrapped his strong arms around her. Holding her naked body to his in an amazingly simple hug. Moly wrapped him in her arms, toying with his hair now. His mouth moved to her shoulder, not kissing, just resting there in the cradle of their arms. Overwhelmed with sentiment, some half formed thought about feeling at home in her arms flashed to the front of his mind.

Molly pulled away slightly, reaching for the bottle of liquid soap that sat in the small shower shelf. "Turn around" she whispered carefully.

Sherlock did as he was told even though he was unwilling to turn his back to her naked body. His anguish about not seeing her was ripped from him as he felt her. Delicate hands on his shoulders, lathering soap over them sensually.

Molly took the offered opportunity to take in the expanse of his back. Three little freckles dotted the otherwise immaculate skin. Her soapy hands traced his muscular back, each time dipping lower and lower, closer to his gorgeously sculpted arse. At his lower back she worked her thumbs into his spine, massaging a soft groan from him. Molly, spurred by the sound, worked her way higher, massaging up his back to his shoulders, an action that meant she had to move closer to him to accomplish.

Sherlock didn't mind. Her proximity was intoxicating. Sherlock moaned again at the feel of Molly's wet, naked body pressed against his back. Her hips and breast the main points of contact. He wanted nothing more then to turn and push her gently against the wall, to devour her, but her earlier hesitance was still strong in his mind. Hell, even he was unsure of himself.

Sherlock knew what he wanted, and usually just took it, but the need to be careful in this new unchartered territory with Molly was evident. His experience level was low which made him unsure of the natural state of progression. He wanted to be greedy, to have her and take her in a manly fashion, but at the same time, his emotional response told him he had to be gentle, for his own sake as much as hers.

From Molly's new position behind him, her hands began soaping his front, working their way under his arms so that she could lather his chest. She avoided his scar in her slow decent downwards, over his stomach, tracing the outline of the abdominals there, hands slippery in his smooth skin.

Nothing prepared Sherlock for Molly's next move. Her hands dipped lower, lower then they ever had before, and gave Sherlock a gentle, ghost-like stroke before moving to his thighs. Sherlock felt weak at the knees, summoning strength from within himself to not collapse, the sound slipping from him a moan that echoed off of the bathroom tiles.

"Molly." he muttered, an edge of begging in his tone. Molly pressed her face against his wet back, a grin breaking her face.

She had Sherlock literally in the palm of her hands, practically pleading for her touch. She felt strong, powerful and a little bit naughty. Molly had gotten over her early trepidation, and now she wanted to take advantage of this opportunity. Molly felt she had to, because in the busy life they led, who knew when another opportunity for fun would arise.

She moved her hands to where he desired them most yet again, pretending she had accidentally brushed her hand there in her endeavour to cleanse him. That moan erupted from him again, a moan that shot liquid fire through her core.

Deciding to skip the teasing torture, Molly moved her hands to his groin once again, fingers wrapping around his hard member slowly. Sherlock hissed lightly, closing his eyes as she stroked him in long, luxurious strokes. Delicate yet strong hands knowing exactly what they were doing. The angle was awkward but not at all unpleasant.

Sherlock tried to turn back to her, but she would not allow it, boxing him into her embrace. "Oh God." he muttered as her talented hands sped up, his head lolling back, dripping water off of his drenched curls. "Oh God, Molly"

The soft flirty giggle echoed through both of them as it rumbled in her chest, still pressed to his back. Sherlock was in a state of sensory overload. Her body, her touch, her breath, the heat of the water raining down on them. He wanted to compete the set, he wanted to taste, to hear. He wanted her all.

Gently overpowering her, he turned, trapping her hand between their bodies, still wrapped blissfully around his erection. Molly gasped as suddenly he shoved her soaking wet hair over one shoulder and bent to attack her neck with kisses.

The movement of her hand lost its precision now that Sherlock was distracting her with his attention. Mouth on throat and hand on breast, he explored as she continued to stroke. The only time he detached from her was when she brought her second hand down to massage his balls carefully.

Sherlock let out a choked sob at the attention, having no choice but to release her with one hand so he could press it against the shower tile to steady himself. Molly leant forward to attach her mouth to his neck, similar to how he had been assaulting hers. She suckled on his collarbone as her hand administered its sweet torture on Sherlock's body, each second rendering him inoperable.

Any other time a woman had touched him this way, the experience had been clumsy and unsatisfying. Even Janine, when he had been high, had managed to disappoint him sexually in one of only three encounters. Women, in his shallow experience, had no idea what they were doing when it came to pleasuring him. It was part of the reason why he didn't bother - the effort of teaching a companion the art of sexual gratification was usually higher than the outcome. Molly, as always, was an exception to that rule. Every caress from Molly, even the careless and awkward ones (that were few and far between) ignited something dormant deep in his body.

Still leaning against the wall with one hand, Sherlock looked down at this beautiful woman who was currently licking beads of water from his chest in gentle flicks of her tongue. More unintelligible noise drew from him, especially when that talented tongue darted out to tease a nipple. Her hand persisted on his penis, and Sherlock felt a slight tightening in his stomach. A building of tension that made him step away in the limited space of the claw foot tub.

Molly looked up at him, quizzical and concerned in her lust filled expression. "What?"

"I am being so selfish." he panted. With only the occasional brush and squeeze of her body, he had allowed her to take control of this whole encounter, selfishly feeling as opposed to showing her just how much he also wanted her body.

"So?" Molly countered, launching herself back at his mouth hungrily, hand returning to where it had been. "Plenty of time."

Sherlock didn't argue, although many words floated to the forefront of his mind. Within seconds, that coil of delicious tension was back in his belly, tightening his muscles blissfully.

Sherlock's usual face of unwavering control was lost with every sensual tug of Molly's hand. Jaw slack and eyes glazed, he was having trouble keeping up with his breathing.

Molly watched the change in stoic man she loved. Hunched, taut and vibrating, his orgasm approaching rapidly. She bit her lip, trying to lock every sensation of this into her memory. Every sound, every facial expression, every quiver. Watching him give himself over to her like this was extremely arousing.

Suddenly, his hand squeezed around hers, holding him still in a combination of their grips. Sherlock Holmes spilt across their hands, breathless and heaving.

In the aftermath, both realised the water had gone cold. Neither cared. Sherlock pulled his darling pathologist into his arms once again, treating her to long, lazy kisses as an inadequate thank you for everything she had just done for him. Whilst longing was still evident in Molly, a violent shiver against the cold wracked her.

Sherlock took a second to make a connection before stealing out if the shower and holding a hand out to her. Molly took the accepted hand then waited as Sherlock held out a large, soft towel for her. He wrapped it round her body, rubbing her sides in an attempt to warm her. No words were spoken between the two if them as the detective slung his towel around his own hips and lead her into his bedroom. After pulling back the blankets and depositing her into his bed, he turned on the heater to help warm the room.

"I don't deserve you." Sherlock paused, looking down at Molly, naked and damp in his bed. Her mass of hair was spread against the pillows in an attempt to dry it quickly. Molly gave a lazy, sly smile, taking his hand and pulling her to the bed with a gentle tug. "That was not my intention when I kissed you in the hall" Sherlock whispered, nuzzling into her neck. Molly smiled.

"I know." She replied honestly, then turned to him playfully. "But you're not complaining, are you?"

"God no!" Sherlock replied. "My inquisitive mind wants to ask where you acquired those skills. But the emotional side that you bring out in me doesn't want to know even the slightest scrap of information."

Molly smiled, "I am not working from a 'wealth' of experience" Molly began, and when Sherlock realised his words may of offended her, went to apologise profusely. Molly dismissed him with a smile. "As adults, lets just both assume that none of this is new to us."

Sherlock nodded, wondering briefly if they would ever try something new together. His lack of general experience left a long list of 'new experiences'.

Sherlock kissed her then, passionately and craving until Molly pulled away, lips swollen. Flat on her back with Sherlock leaning over her, hand on his chest, his eyes clouded with desire yet again. Molly reached to pull him on top of her, but he resisted, hands sliding to her hip under the towel. She tried to pull him onto her again. Sherlock shook his head, instead dipping to ghost his lips across the exposed part of her chest, hands sliding lower.

It all clicked in Molly's mind. Sherlock was intending to return the favour.

He fought off the nervous tremor in his hand as it danced lower, tickling gently her upper thighs, attempting to build the anticipation in his pathologist. Her eyes fluttered shut. Leaning forward, he whispered in her ear. "Teach me how to please you."

"You're doing quite well on your own." Molly joked as Sherlock's hand brushed her inner thigh. He smiled, resting his head against her chest and carefully pressing his fingers to her heat.

Taking her verbal cues as guidance, Sherlock explored, passing over her clit, over-sensitive with arousal, a few times before delving into her tight opening. Molly clutched his shoulder at the welcome intrusion.

He was an attentive lover, Molly realised as his mouth began to work on her chest, sucking a perked nipple into his mouth. Delicate musician hands, commanding yet gentle, continued their assault on her wired body, dragging whimpers from her. She moaned and raised her hips to his hand, silently begging him to push his fingers deeper into her heat. He obliged willingly.

Molly was slightly embarrassed with how quickly she was approaching release. Electricity buzzing, arousal high from their previous dealings in the shower and a build up of years of attraction had her mewling in his arms in minutes. Sherlock noticed, continuing his advances.

With laboured breath, Molly reached to twist his hand between her legs, changing his angle and pressing his palm against her inflamed bundle of nerve endings. Sherlock took up the direction quickly, halting his lips on her skin to look down at the beautiful creature before him. Sherlock promised himself in that instant that he would endeavour to see this look of ecstasy on Molly's face more often.

Sherlock nuzzled against her throat as she fought against her climax, wanting to stretch the moment out. Sensations overwhelmed her and Molly knew that she was loosing her battle.

"Let go." Sherlock said suddenly, mouth against her ear, baritone thick with lust. "I want to see..."

Molly couldn't even let him complete the sentence, clenching around his skilled fingers, dragging his mouth back to her to punish him with her own. Sherlock kissed back breathlessly, taken aback by the most erotic display he had ever seen.

Molly held Sherlock tight to her chest as she settled. Their rapid heartbeats aligned, bashing in their chest at their encounter.

"That was my intention when I put you in bed." Sherlock admitted, echoing their earlier conversation. Molly laughed breathlessly.

Molly stretched under him and threw off his blanket, suddenly hot after the physical exertion. Sherlock continued to nuzzle her throat dreamily, knowing he would sleep well in her arms that evening.

His mind searched for something to say. It seemed like the type of moment to say something. He wanted to thank her, not just for tonight but for her presence in his life in general. He wanted to praise her in his exceptionally skilled hands. He wanted to ask for feedback on his own handiwork. He wanted to tell her he cared about her and have her verbally return the sentiment. As always when dealing with emotion, his words escaped him. Everything his mind tested seemed awkwardly cliche, so he settled for just lying with her, relaxed in her embrace.

After a few comfortably silent minutes, Molly interrupted them. More specifically, Molly's stomach interrupted, announcing its hunger. She made an embarrassed noise as Sherlock chuckled. "Hungry?"

"Starving" Molly admitted. Sherlock sat up and checked the time, as Molly continued speaking. "Shall we get a takeaway."

"I have a better idea" Sherlock smiled, standing and crossing to his dresser where he retrieved a clean pair of boxers. "Get dressed, Molly Hooper, I'd like to take you on a date."

0o0

"Hi, Mr Holmes!" A short, blonde haired teen greeted as they entered the small cafe a few blocks away from Baker Street. "Are you here on business? Do you need to see my Dad? He's in the kitchen?"

"Not business tonight Helen." Sherlock replied, briefly looking to Molly. "Dinner"

"Dinner." Helen tested the word, then grinned knowingly from the detective to Molly. "Sure, follow me."

Sherlock took Molly's hand as they were led to a table in the back of the small cafe and Helen gave them both a menu. When the young waitress had moved away, Molly smiled. "Business?"

Sherlock looked around, playing as though he was about to share a massive secret, and said "We play cards together once a week."

Molly laughed and browsed her menu, each suggested meal making her mouth water. Sherlock recommended a few things to her, either from his own experience or that John had sampled before, and when Helen came back to take their order, she had settled on the carbonara. Surprisingly, Sherlock also ordered a meal.

They chatted over dinner, like a couple would on a date. Their idea of small talk was a little different, not surprisingly (crime scenes and scientific studies were their main topics of conversation.) but Molly was sure that this was the best date she had ever been on.

After dinner, Molly was contemplating coffee (debating whether the evening caffeine intake would keep her awake all night) when suddenly, the lights in the cafe shut off.

"Everyone stay calm" a kind, gentle voice said, ensuring that no one in the cafe moved. Sherlock squeezed Molly's hand across the table to reassure her. "I am Jack, the owner, I am going to check the fuses. Could be a power outage. Helen, grab some candles and torches."

Molly smiled in the darkness. "Why don't we ever just assume a outage as an explanation anymore? I always seem to jump to conclusions" She asked as she reached into her handbag for her phone that had a torch app on it.

The torch lit their small table, making her gasp at what the darkness had concealed.

Pressed against Sherlock's temple was the barrel of a gun.

0o0

A/N: enjoy your cliffhanger!


	17. Chapter 17

The sound of the gun being cocked echoed through Molly's heart. Sherlock's eyes went momentarily wide as the sound registered in his own mind. He then steeled himself, slipping back into the bravery he usually faced dangerous situations with.

"Not another move, Miss Hooper" the voice at the other end of the gun said. It wasn't Moriarty. Molly placed her phone on the table between them, flashlight down. Not knowing what else to do, Molly held her hands up in front of her as though surrendering. Her hands were shaking terribly.

"Doctor." Sherlock stated into the darkness. "She's a doctor."

For his insolence, he received the butt if the gun to his face. "Sweet Mary" he cursed, making as much eye contact as he could as he straighted back into his chair, now that his eyes had adjusted to the limited light.

Molly watched him sit up defiantly. She paused and took a shaky breath, summoning all of her own courage. Always one to preach about her own emotional strength, Molly knew now was her opportunity to prove it. Sherlock widened his eyes again, at the same time pressing his foot gently into the top of hers, trying to remind her he was with her. She counted down from ten in her mind, eyes locked on Sherlock's for strength. As she mentally announced one, she sat up, a picture of strength and courage. Sherlock smiled briefly at her in a 'that's my girl' kind of way.

"Date over!" the voice in the darkness said, rubbing the cold barrel of the gun against Sherlock's temple in an attempt to get him to stand up. Sherlock did as was silently requested, holding out his hand to Molly as he did so. She was tense, but no longer shaking.

The gunman lead them to the street, through the unsuspecting darkness of the cafe. they stood under the glow of one of the streetlights, allowing sherlock to taking in the facial features of the man in question. and under the glow. He didn't recognise him, and from the look of determined concentration on her face, neither did Molly.

A black car arrived in front if them, and Sherlock saw his window of opportunity closing. Working rapidly, Sherlock jerked Molly to the side suddenly. The movement alerted their companion, making him turn to them, allowing Sherlock better access to his front. A quick punch to the throat had the enforcer doubled over, but Sherlock knew the cheap shot was not enough to incapacitate him.

"Molly run!" Sherlock ordered as he was tackled to the ground by his breathless opponent. Molly turned on her heel, running as fast as she could to the end if the street. "Keep running." he bellowed after her.

Molly ran as a fast as her legs would carry her, and soon the sounds of the men fighting on the roadside were drowned out by her own agonised breathing. There was another set of footsteps, she realised, and then looked over her shoulder. Another man, probably the driver, was following her, but as luck would have it, he was not all that fit.

Molly ducked into a side street and then into a small crevice between two buildings, pausing to regain her breath. Now that she was dating Sherlock Holmes, she would need to renew her gym membership.

Heartbeat hammering, head pounding, Molly realised just how stupid her idea was. Between two buildings where there was no opportunity for escape. She was going to get caught for sure. Her hardened demeanour dropped as she realised that this silly idea not only let down Sherlock, who trusted her with his safety, but could possibly get them both killed.

Surprisingly, the man who had been following her ran straight past her hiding place. "I thought that only worked in movies." She muttered to herself.

Molly pressed her head back against the bricks behind her and took one, last deep breath. Everything was steadying, but she was sure that the thumping in her heart would not diminish anytime soon. Sherlock just sacrificed himself for her, allowing himself to be beaten up (and probably by now taken to some undisclosed location) to ensure her freedom. God she loved that man.

Now it was time to prove that love by getting him some help.

0o0

"John?" Mary smiled, sugary sweet, looking up from her laptop to her husband who was sitting by the window, reading over a medical journal.

"Hmmm?"

"We should go on a holiday." She suggested carefully. "You know, before the baby comes."

"A holiday?" John lowered the journal to look over the top of it at his wife. Molly had moved to sit on the armrest of the chair beside his. "We just went on a honeymoon."

"I know." She sighed. "but a lot has happened since then." Mary added, then realised that shedding light in the more negative aspects if the beginning if their marriage probably wasn't the right attack strategy. Changing track, she added, "All the forums I've been reading..."

John closed his journal and threw it onto the coffee table so that he was giving his wife his undivided attention. "Mary, I do wish you'd stay off the forums..."

"Says you, blogger of the year." Mary scoffed playfully.

"Blogs are a very different thing." He defended almost instantly. "Alright, what do the forums say?"

Mary went back to her chair where she had left her laptop, brining it to him in the hopes the written evidence would help her case. "That couples should take the opportunity to spend some time alone together, solidifying their relationship, before the introduction of the baby into the family. Things get so stressful and hectic after the birth..."

John laughed "We can handle hectic and stressful."

"Come on, don't be a spoil sport." This time Mary sat on the arm of John's chair after she discarded her computer. She carded a hand through his hair the way she knew he liked. "Dont you want a quick romantic getaway?"

John's eyes slid shut as her hands continued to massage his scalp. "I'd love one, but work..."

She angled herself slightly, sliding from the armrest into her husbands lap, cuddling against his chest. John's arms wrapped around her delicately, one hand resting in her ever swelling belly. "You've got leave saved up, so do I."

"Well, what about Sherlock?"

"What about Sherlock?" Mary asked, holding herself at arms length to look at her husband. "He's a grown man, John. And he has Molly now."

A look of concern graced John's features, knitting his brow in a way that Mary actually found quite sexy. "Moriarty is back though. He might need me."

"He might" she agreed weakly, but then continued by saying "but has he really needed you over the last few weeks?" John looked shocked by her statement, prompting Mary to immediately apologise. "Sorry, that sounded harsher than I intended."

"I guess it's true." John admitted sadly, lacing his fingers with hers. Mary leant forward to kiss his cheek soundly.

"A weekend in France, or a quick trip to Costa Del Sol." She tempted, making John sigh with want. She had succeeded, she knew, in getting her own way, because her husband, no matter how strong and brave he looked, was a massive softy at heart. "A nice relaxing babymoon John, just you and me."

"Alright."

"Alright." Mary smiled happily, kissing any part if his face she could get access to. John laughed, playfully trying to swat her away. They fought for a while until their war dissolved into a strong hug, both cuddled in the couch and neither willing to move. Content.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, John said "But lets stay close, yeah, just in case Sherlock does get into trouble."

"Sherlock Holmes will not get into trouble." Mary replied firmly.

A fierce pounding at the door made John jump, almost throwing Mary off of his lap in shock. Recovering, she got up off of his lap, allowing John to hesitantly move to the front door. Molly stormed in as soon as the door was open wide enough, looking disheveled, tear streaked and out of breath.

"John, Mary..." She began, swallowing against the pain in her chest. "Sherlock's been taken."

0o0

Molly's heart was still hammering in her chest, hands shaking as Mary handed her a cup of tea, sitting beside her on the Watson's couch to stroke her back soothingly. She had done so well to keep everything together, but as soon as she exited her cab on outside of the Watson's, relief flooded her and tears had fallen like rain. "We were out for dinner, the power went out, and then there was a man with a gun."

John, who was pacing the length of the living room, paused to look at her inquisitively. "Who was it, did you recognise him?"

Molly shook her head and replied "It wasn't Moriarty."

"Ok." John nodded, picking up Mary's phone and tossing it to his wife. "Mary, call Greg, I am going to call Mycroft."

"Mycroft?" Mary asked suddenly, watching as John left the room to retrieve his own phone from the kitchen. John re-entered, phone already to his ear.

John said over the sound of the dial tone."Best case scenario: Mycroft kidnapped his own brother to have a little chat."

"Worst case?" Molly asked, standing weakly to join the conversation.

John's face was grim in its determination. "Well, we will probably need Mycroft for the worst case scenario also."

0o0

Mycroft Holmes was a sight to behold. Business shirt rolled up to his sleeves, a navy stripped apron covering his shirt and a tea towel thrown over his left shoulder. He stood at the stove, stirring three separate pots. Delicious smells surrounding him. Cooking was one of the only hobbies he indulged himself in, and although finding the time was always difficult for him, he made sure he cooked at least once a day.

The ringing of a telephone on the bench to his left surprised him, but he made no move to answer it, instead calling to his companion. "Gregory, your phone is ringing."

Greg Lestrade entered from the adjoining dining room where he had been setting the table. "Bugger, missed it." He muttered as he picked up his phone and glanced at the caller ID. "Mary Watson, why on earth would Mary be calling me?"

A second phone began to ring, and Mycroft wiped his hands on his tea towel, retrieving the device from his pocket. "John Watson."

He accepted the call and put it on speaker. "Doctor Watson."

"Mycroft, Sherlock's been taken" John began, skipping over the pleasantries, partially due to the importance of the issue at hand, but mainly because John hated talking to Mycroft.

"Taken?" Greg asked.

"Lestrade. Good. Saves a phone call." John said. "Molly and Sherlock were out to dinner, someone took him from the restaurant at gun point."

"Not one of my men" Mycroft said in response to the unspoken question. "Moriarty?"

"We are assuming so."

"Ok, time is of the essence." Mycroft stated, mind flicking through all of the different avenues he could use ti track down his missing brother. "We need to ensure that Sherlock and Doctor Hooper are..."

"Molly's fine." John said quickly. "Shaken, but fine. She is the one who raised the alarm. She's here with us now."

Molly stood and moved a little closer to the phone so that her voice, which felt as weak as the rest of her, could be heard. "Sherlock made a diversion so that I could run."

"That's my brother, always trying to save the damsel." Mycroft sighed, but underneath it all, pride was evident in his voice. Mycroft did what he did to help someone he cared about, and that was an honourable thing.

"Are you at John's?" Greg asked, calculating his plan of attack in his mind. "I am on my way. I'll take a statement and go from there."

"In the meantime, Doctor Hooper, stay on the line and tell me everything you remember, I will work on the cameras in the area to know which direction to head in."

Greg ducked into the next room, coming back with his jacket in the crook of his elbow was he strapped his gun into its holster. Anticipation took up residence in his belly, but it was a welcomed danger of his job was one of the main things he craved. He picked up his keys, ready to get back out to fighting the good fight, when the look on Mycroft's face caught his attention.

"Be careful" Mycroft held the phone away from his ear to share a private moment with Greg. He leant forward, kissing his partner on the cheek before whispering "Please."

"I promise." Greg said firmly. He could never say no to Mycroft Holmes.

0o0

Sherlock brushed is fingertips against his cheekbone where he had been hit by the butt of the gun. He was sure it was bruised, as the flesh there was tender. That tenderness led to a scrape on his chin and a slight busted lip from the fight with his captor's goon, but for some reason, it was the bruise in his cheekbone that he kept poking at.

He was locked in a room. Had been for about an hour. The journey from the cafe to his current location had been short and non-descript, making it difficult for Sherlock to figure out his general location. He had some ideas, all of which in the opposite direction of Baker Street.

After being thrown into the room by the gun wielding fiend and his chubby driver, no one had spoken to him, giving him a lot of time to think. A little about the predicament he found himself in, but mainly about Molly. It had been risky sending her to get help, but facing the alternative, letting her get kidnapped while he went to get help was completely out of the question. He only hoped that she was ok. That she had outrun her those persuing her and made it to the safety of the Watson's. (He had hinted that that was where she was to go and only hoped that she had picked up in that.) (Of course she had, his mind reasoned, she was amazingly smart.)

Being held in captivity was a surprisingly familiar situation for Sherlock. It had happened many times during his consulting detective career and while he wouldn't say he enjoyed the experience, it was common enough that he was calm and collected in his entrapment. He knew exactly what he must do to survive the situation, and how to gain the most useful information. His plan on this occasion was not to escape (even though this room had a very simple bolt lock mechanism on its unguarded, unbarred window that would make his escape quite simple) until after a face to face meeting with the captor. In a situation where a captor believed them self to have the upper hand, it was more likely that they would slip up, revealing sensitive information.

Sherlock went back to prodding his cheek, waiting patiently for his host to reveal themselves. While it had not been Moriarty holding the gun in the cafe, Sherlock's money was on him as the kidnapper. Sure, there was a list of people he had pissed off enough to warrant a hostage situation, but Jim was by far the most prominent.

After what felt like another hour, the heavy door finally opened, and his captor entered, making Sherlock's hand drop to the table with a thud.

A look of surprised shock graced his features as he waited for his mind to register what his eyes were seeing "No way!"

Standing before him, looking every bit the criminal mastermind, was Molly's ex-fiance Tom.


	18. Chapter 18

He knew he looked ridiculous, but Sherlock just couldn't pick up his jaw.

"Tom?" He Stated, sounding all together daft. Tom made a shrugging motion.

"I do prefer Thomas, usually." The new addition to the sum replied, running his hand through his hair.

Sherlock, still reeling with new revelations, narrowed his gaze to focus on his facial features, there was a familiarity to it that he just couldn't place, so in a very un-Sherlock move, he made a guess. "Thomas Moriarty?"

"What?" Thomas was shocked for a second, cocking his head to the side in a move that Sherlock had seen a number if times in the short time Tom and Molly had spent together. The move had always looked moronic when it was done by Tom the 'bumbling look alike boyfriend' but now that he was faced with Thomas, 'unknown danger' it was a quite calculated move. "Moriarty? Oh heavens no! I wish..."

Not a Moriarty then. Sherlock continued to search the features before him for anything recognisable, but still there was nothing, other than the strong resemblance to himself that he and John had noticed and commented on.

"It is a real pleasure to finally meet you this way" Thomas suddenly held out his hand proudly, waiting patiently for Sherlock to take it. Sherlock, still in a haze of dumbfounded confusion, placed his hand in the offered one and shook. "Thomas Magnussen."

Sherlock's hand was suddenly trapped in a death grip as Thomas tried to physically intimidate him. The slight pain in his hand brought with it clarity he needed, for suddenly, deductions began to flow.

"Charles Augustus Magnussen's nephew." Sherlock stated plainly. "He had no children of his own publically, and while there is rumour that he had a few illegitimate ones, I know you are not one of them. Molly mentioned that you had taken her to meet your parents, Magnussen was a well known public figure and would of been too recognisable for her to not mention that she was dating his son."

"You are good." Thomas said, but there was no praise in his voice.

Sherlock continued "Son of Magnussen's sister, because I remember from the wedding planning that your invitation was for Molly Hooper and Thomas Franklin."

"Magnussen has more of a ring to it." Tom admitted.

"Mother died when you were only a child, and your father, while he tried, did not know how to nurture you." Sherlock added. The deduction floodgates were open in his mind now that that final piece if simple information had been provided.

"Uncle Charles took me under his wing, taught me everything he knew." Thomas cut in, then gave Sherlock a quick once over, deducing him as he had been deduced. "You're the child of a brilliant mathematician and a shire council town planner, but retired. Younger brother of Mycroft Holmes, high in the food chain if the British government..."

"Public fact, easily accessible through one of the many 'fan' sites" Sherlock dismissed.

"...and a third Holmes child, deceased at an early age." Thomas continued as though Sherlock had never interrupted, and Sherlock paused. "That wasn't from a fan site."

Thomas sat down before the consulting detective, relaxing into the chair. "Deductions are great aren't they? They really help you identify a person's pressure points."

"He really did teach you everything."

Thomas, it seemed, was not listening. "Like you, for example. A changing list if pressure points, the main one overlooked by my uncle, just as it had been overlooked by Moriarty in the past." He leant back, a sly smile breaking his face. "Recent sexual activity, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock did his best to not show any emotion. Thomas continued that sickening grin he was sporting.

"Don't worry, I won't go into detail." Thomas replied, "Your life with Molly is your life."

"Youre showing her an unusual level of respect." Sherlock observed, gaping again when the realisation dawned on him. "You actually had feelings for her, didn't you?" Tom was not as good at hiding his feelings, and his face dropped momentarily.

"She was not a terrible human to spend time with." He admitted shallowly, but Sherlock instantly read the subtext. Thomas Magnussen had been in love with Molly. The poor girl did have a type, it seemed. "She was smart, funny in that stupid way, a wealth of information about those I aspire to be like and let's admit, baser instincts were well catered for in a relationship with Molly Hooper."

Sherlock clenched his fist in the table, making Thomas laugh dismissively. "I am not going to do anything to hurt her Sherlock, that would be detrimental to my endgame."

"Your endgame?" Sherlock questioned, eying his suspiciously as Thomas stood and looked out of the hardly bolted window. "To kill me, I am assuming?"

"Why are you so sure that you are the target in all this?" Thomas asked. Sherlock gestured around the room where he was being held in captivity. The other man chuckled. "Sorry to disappoint you Sherlock, but you are only the middle man."

Thomas sat before him again, hands clasped on the table in a businesslike fashion. Sherlock straightened to try to physically intimidate his companion.

"I come to you with a proposal" Thomas began. "I want to help you stop Moriarty"

Of all the possible things Thomas could have said, Sherlock had not expected that. "Help me stop Moriarty?"

"Yes" he stated with clarity. "I want to help you stop Jim Moriarty once and for all."

Sherlock paused. "Why? Wait, I mean, I know why, you referred to me as the middle man, I understand that part, but why do you want to help me."

"I am up and coming, Sherlock" he sighed with a hint if distaste. "I lack the credibility and the notoriety that my uncle had, if I want to make waves, then I need to be involved in the 'big boys game'"

"You do realise this is ludicrous" Sherlock told him. "You help me take down Moriarty so that you can be the new big, bad wolf. That will only result in one thing... Me turning my efforts to stopping you."

"Ahh, but you don't know what I intend on doing with my power" Thomas smiled.

"I suggest something overly unpleasant if you are going after Moriarty" Sherlock shrugged.

"Only time will tell" Thomas began, reclining back into his chair.

Sherlock read him closely. "You don't even know yourself!" He accused. "You have no idea what you're intending in doing."

Thomas' composure slipped once again, this time Sherlock had rattled it enough that Thomas remained exposed for a few seconds. Sherlock smirked. "You're not ready to play this game, Tom. You need more training."

Sherlock stood, tucked his chair under the table and smiled sweetly. "Shall I show myself out?"

He took two steps before the overly predictable words stopped his retreat only fractionally. "You'll pay for this Sherlock."

0o0

"You'll pay for this Sherlock" he mocked as he walked out onto the street. Easy to escape indeed, as there was no one following him, and by the look of the man Thomas had put on the door, no one was going to.

Any concern that Thomas Magnussen had been a threat evaporated as Sherlock moved out into the street and walked in the general direction of civilisation. He hadn't even been a very good criminal, allowing him to take his coat back as he strolled out of his confinement. Sherlock dug in the pocket, taking out his phone. No missed calls.

He dialled a number as he held out his hand, a cab almost instantly pulling up beside him.

"Hello? Sherlock?" Molly's voice was weaker than expected on the other end of the phone. Sherlock was confused, had she not known he was in control the whole time.

"Hey you." He tried to put her at ease. "Where are you?"

"John and Mary's" Molly replied, and Sherlock took the time to give the address to the waiting cabbie. "Wait, are you in a cab?"

"Of course I am in a cab" Sherlock replied. "And wait until you hear what happened to me..." A sniffle caught his attention. He paused. "Are you? Molly, stop crying, I was gone an hour and a half."

Molly continued to sniffle. Sherlock sighed and pressed on with his reassurance. "I am fine."

Molly took a breath. "I am not used to excitement."

"Bull" he grinned. "You throw bodies off buildings and slap the crap out of drug users all the time."

Molly's laugh was still quite weak as she replied "Yeah, but I've never watched the man I love get kidnapped."

Sherlock paused, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Either Molly had intended it, or had not realised what she had just said, but she had declared her love for him. Is that how it worked? Was it really as easy as all that? Just briefly slipping the words into conversation. Telling someone you loved them seemed bigger than just casually slipping it into conversation, yet Molly had just done it, as easy as that.

"Sherlock?" Molly asked suddenly, drawing his attention back to the conversation they were having.

"I'll be there soon" he muttered, hanging up abruptly.

He sat pensively in the back of the cab. Of all the new information hie had to register from the last 24 hours (the fighting, Corrine's cause of death, the new sensations he had experienced in the shower with Molly and now the introduction of Thomas into the fray) the one thing that he registered as most important was Molly's declaration of love.

He was a lucky man, he knew. He didn't deserve the love and affection of those in his life. He didn't deserve the friends and family he did, and now, better then all else, he had the love of an amazing woman.

Paying the cabbie when the vehicle stopped, Sherlock exited the cab quickly, taking the steps outside of the Watson's house two at a time. Testing the doorknob found it unlocked, allowing him to enter quickly. Everyone was in the living room, waiting for his obvious return, but he ignored them all, marching his way directly to the couch, where Molly sat, wrapped in a blanket.

She smiled up at him, but before she got a chance to say anything, Sherlock swooped down on her, capturing her cheeks in his hands and kissing her soundly, ignoring the curious glances of others in the room.

"I love you too." he whispered when he pulled away.


End file.
